


In memory of what is true

by Noruard



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dreamer Lavellan, F/M, Long, Rebellious Lavellan, Slow Burn, Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noruard/pseuds/Noruard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I shall not deny there will be sadness in my words: what I have been through grieved me sometimes. Anyway, if anyone is to read my account, I wish him or her to know I may declare myself proud, for I saved lives, I did not linger to complain about my past, as many of my kind still do, and rose instead to face what was to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What must be remembered

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is a first person written account about the events of Dragon Age-Inquisition, a videogame by Bioware-EA.  
> 2) I do not own anything belonging to the Bioware's Dragon Age world. I created this work only as a divertissement, without any commercial purpose  
> 3) I am not a native English speaker. That implies that I will have grammatical and lexical issues, which I will be glad to correct with the support of anyone willing to help. Thank you.  
> 4) I will update as often as I can and let you know in case it goes unfinished for reasons beyond my will.  
> Not everything is canon, although I try to follow the story as more as possible.  
> About smut, love relationships and such, I am a fond reader of many Solavellan nice works available in here. Yet, I actually think smut will be quite inappropriate for my Inquisitor, thus I would rather avoid anything kinky. Of course I romanced Solas and there will be room given to that, too, but their romance, however significant, will not be my main focus.  
> Many thanks to everyone reading. I hope you will enjoy ^^

Does not every child dream of saving the world?

 I was one of the Few- unaware, yet certain to retain every possible knowledge, filled with the arrogance that is natural to my breed, and even then I burnt for adventure, wanting wider spaces, desiring for more.  
One day, I used to say, the entire world will kneel before me; no shem will dare to insult my legacy or my people. Not anymore. Not that, in this, I was too different from any other kid of my age; amongst the scattered nations of the Dalish, such vagaries of revenge are all but rare, so greatly affectionate we are to our misery. We commemorate it, we worship it, endlessly cuddling our injuries. They are the only thing left to make us unique- the remains of a glorious past, still too heavy to carry, even now that it sounds like a long ago faded echo.  
When I consider the days I spent in the freedom of the dales, I can see how foolish some things were. Yet, there has been a time of blindness for me, too, when my consciousness faltered, and my people could not provide me greater wisdom: they were even more insane than me.

 

Now I have seen what a misguided memory can do, how quickly lies take possession of what lingers in dim light.  
Cassandra, irreplaceable friend, perhaps the closest amongst the few I can trust, was the first to make me think of it .  
We were back from Adamant; it had been an exhausting journey and we repaired to Skyhold more disconcerted than ever. We had seen too much and lost even more. Both mourn and astonishment were probably the least things to worry about.  
She sat at a table, shining in the evening sun. Autumn was everywhere around us, wrapping everything in a golden mist. The scent of trees, the forge and the iron clinging in the smithy made air feel thick and sounds as far as lullabies. It was hard to stay focused: the season was too sweet. Her right hand sent sparkles of copper- tiny pieces of metal were arranged to decorate her cuffs: it was running a pen on a sheet, its pace as unsteady as her grip could fit easily the sword which she was so better accostumed to.  
“I am not a woman of letters, but we cannot allow people to build legends around such vital issues. Records must be set quickly; I myself could forget or loose focus on what really happened. Everything came so fast and there was so much confusion…” she told me.  
She was right, I thought. Adamant was not the only thing that needed reliable accounts. That night, we celebrated what little we could be happy about and mourned our dead, and I went in my bed too tired to reflect. Few days later, I resolved I was going to keep a diary.  
Yet, too many things passed- a blinding rush of blood and glory. I have never had time to sit and meditate any further. I hoped a time of peace and rejoicing was to come for me, after all that; unfortunately, when the most was over, I found little I could remember without distress.  
Victory can come at an utter cost.

 

I am sitting now at my good wooden desk, shaped in rough Fereldan style; it used to lay in a corner of my bedroom, when I had no time to linger on its coarse carvings. Now I had it moved in front of the balcony, the one which faces the mountains.  
Cold wind blows on their powerful shoulders, and I remember when I dreamt of peaks and ascents, like an eagle far from her nest.  
My clan seldom camped too far from plains and rivers: snow is an enemy to nomads and mountains can be treacherous, my Keeper said. Yet I longed for height.  
When I arrived at Skyhold, I spent that little time I could spare from the Inquisition in climbing and wandering, my heart furiously beating, I do not even know whether in awe or terror.  
On those tops my counsellor used to come and find me- a wise man, who liked loneliness as much as I did. Those were glorious moments. We sat on the boulders and rest silent. Earth was the only link between us. We were ancient as the bones of the world, or such I felt. Nothing seemed impossible, then.  
The air is cold; it smells of perennial snow, and it carries another sweet scent, too, one I have grown accustomed to in these months. It is the sign I am here, in a safe harbour, at Skyhold. She wraps my like a warm cloak as long as I rest in her stony bosom. She awaits and makes me long for her quiet majesty, whenever I am far. No matter how lost I can feel through the lands tainted by fratricidal wars; let my journey end, she will welcome me, giving shelter to my pained heart and my tired limbs. I am always thirsty for her perfumes, her colors, her sounds.  
They speak to my dephts, linking me to my role, my name, my legacy. To the one I love. To the one who abandoned me. He guided me to her as he was giving me the most precious stone in his treasure; I prized his gift as it were part of him- the only thing now left to me, together with few books and parchments he borrowed.

 

But I am digressing and, despite my efforts, I am afraid it will not be the last time.  
I was trying to explain what made me decide to leave a recollection of the recent events.  
Once I managed to overcome the astonishment Haven’s victory left in me, I began feeling compelled by a need the origin of which I could not explain. It had nothing to do with what I should have done or what would have been right to do, as it was when Cassandra made me consider the convenience of holding a journal to grant objective reports.  
At the beginning, I was driven only by despair. Then care and compassion made their way through my heart, again, for I remembered how many had been left behind and I knew how much was left to build anew.  
The desire of writing grew- a vertigo that shook my soul with endless hunger.  
Too much had been seen and too greatly I had changed. I needed to elevate myself above the sea of emotions I was cast through, just as a man turning his back to look at the storm he has survived. What I saw, when I started drafting the first lines of my account, gave me shelter and appeased me.  
Still, I could not provide anything formal: I tried countless time to detach me from what I was writing and kept failing, until I understood no reminder could be more sincere than a recollection of what I experienced. I feel no longer ashamed of my emotions, doubts and concerns. Memories, when untouched by fears, are our identity- our most precious treasure, and I do not fear to let them disclosed. I shall not deny there will be sadness in my words: what I have been through grieved me, sometimes.  
Anyway, if anyone is to read my account, I wish him or her to know I may declare myself proud, for I saved lives, I did not linger to complain about my past, as many of my kind still do, and rose instead to face what was to come. I brought peace and I sought for peace, mercy and truth, with all my heart.  
I did not always accomplished my goals, it is true, but as for my efforts, they were rewarded by affection, devotion and friendship, the greatest solace I could desire along with love.

There is but little I truly regret, often beyond my power to stop events, and only two things I still long for, unsatisfied. I still wander and climb the mountain top, even if a familiar shadow no longer reaches in search for little Innuin. I still sit on the rocks and listen intently to the songs of the Sky. In those moments, I prey. I do not know whether the many-named Mythal, the Maker or the Stars. It makes no sense to me to give It a name. I just ask It to keep looking for truth, to find what I am hungry for. My heart burns only in this flame, and there will be no ashes left to the wind, not until I will be one with the half that has been parted from my soul before I was born.


	2. Those who left

Mages can be precocious: in this, there is little difference between humans and elves. It is quite common for a Dalish to discover the Gift at the age of four or five: we develop earlier than shemlen, to suit the harshness of nomadic life. If the age of eight passes without manifesting any magical inclination, then it means there is none. My people rely on what seems to be a rule of nature to sort responsibilities among the freshly found mages. Once you are ten, let even say eleven, you are most likely to know which future awaits you: whether staying with your clan, and thus providing it curation spells and magical defense, or turn your back and be gone forever.  
Keepers are chosen amongst the most talented ones. They must be brave, patient, learned, reliable and charismatic. We are quite individualist, though seldom able to live in isolation, apart from our native clan. Adapting to non-native communities, when we are forced to leave ours, is almost as cutting a piece of your own flesh and trying to let it regrow.  
Clans scarcely welcome newcomers: the balance they struggle to compose among their members is too fragile to allow any intrusion. Growing in a clan means earning a position that will remain yours only if you have gained enough authority to claim it. You are constantly challenged by youngsters and must keep yourself fitting for fight. On the other hand, unless they prove themselves far better than you, both experience and age should grant you an edge on your competitors. Yet, when someone comes from another clan, it is like throwing a fire into a wasps’ nest. Living side by side with your rival cannot but lead you to know his flaws as well as his advantages. He will see yours too, it is true, but, at least, both of you will be forced into fair play. Face a stranger, and there will be no way to catch his game until it is too late. He, or she, is a mystery to you. Moreover, last comers usually look for a place inside their newly aquired community; a place that will be obviously stolen from someone who previously kept it. What if you were that one? Being a mage in a clan in need of outsiders should reassure your guests that you will not provide any threaten: you already had what you wanted, and why should you covet anything more? And yet, despite such reasonable remarks, you will find yourself spied in hostility. Suspicion becomes a habit for people used to roam on the edges of civilization. in addition, every clan has its lore; however slightly it may vary from one to another, Dalish are all utterly jealous of their own version of the tale. Let just slip out Andruil’s hair was fair red rather than light brown, or Mythal’s vest was arranged with a knot instead of a belt, and they will remember, to themselves and to you, how foreigner you are to them, no matter what. Although sad, this is not the worst fate for those who parted from their families. A mage is always a useful tool for the clan he refers to, and they will somehow arrange themselves to your presence and maybe even grow accustomed to you, as long as you do not shake their certainties and avoid romancing anyone without permission from the Keeper. Some mages must wander a long way before finding a clan to settle down: many of them die on their road, prey to wolves and other beasts of the wild, to which they are defenceless, once they run out of mana. And they do:  starvation, consumption and lack of rest all lead to mana drought.  
Since mages are often precocious, as I said, it is unlikely anyone has taught them how to hunt or evade predators. Survival skills are not that vital to mage as they are to average members of the clan. Keepers forbid their apprentices to indulge running, chasing and practicing similar sports; their precise duty is to study and improve their mastery of magics, which makes them hard to match, provided they can use their abilities. Without their tricks, however, they are generally inoffensive and quickly overpowered by brutal strength. Those who manage to avoid direct fighting, or whoever can take enough care of himself to last more than a month in the wilderness, may turn to blood magic or fall under the control of a demon.   
They say it is Fen’Harel who hunts them, both as a wolf and as a teasing spirit, getting even with them whenever he fails taking control of a Keeper or disbanding a clan who resisted his hatred. Dalish are fond of how evil Fen’Harel can be. I made a theory once, and kept it for myself, for it would have only gained me the name of sacrilegious: I have always been the sceptical one. I suspected they liked to consider themselves as lambs, trembling in expectance on the altar: they needed someone to raise a knife, someone they hated and twistedly loved too. No doubt, they truly fear him, and yet they find a certain appeal in celebrating his viciousness, not to mention his lust for our women, which, I was sure, must have given many terrified virgins shivers of delighted anticipation. I saw then no further explanation for the obsessive use of his totem, placed all over around our camps; the thought still makes me smile at their superstition.  
For non-mages, leaving the clan might mean only few things: dissatisfaction ( which will lead them invariably to reach some _shemlen_ town and here become a slave), mental illness and exile. In none of these circumstances another clan would accept to get even slightly in touch with the stranger. He is doomed to follow his senseless desire for _shemlen_ ’s commodities, trading them in exchange for his freedom, or bound to die alone, wandering in misery. To anyone raised amongst the Dalish, solitude smells of insanity or, worse, betrayal. _Harellan_ is the mark of those who hunt alone. They are dangerous, and must be slayed before they threaten the safety of the clan.

And here we come to me and how it all began. I was not an agreeable girl. I am not proud of what I used to be before my teens. Indeed, my clan had no lesser part than I had in my conduct, for, until I was seven, my individualism, arrogance and temerity found increasing encouragement, and they had me grow I hardly could tell whether more impertinent or irresponsible.They laughed at me when I hung about bullying even older males in the camp. They found funny I harassed their children: it was a good training for me and for them. They said I was going to be strong, and praised my cheek, as you would do with a cub showing its potential leadership of the pack. It was likely I would come out a brilliant archer and a smart huntress. I took pleasure in chasing preys and spending days roaming the woodlands. I was rebel to the arrogant teens adults entrusted us to, when youngsters were allowed to wander freely the wilds, yet proved reliable to the tasks the clan gave me. I was quite the lonely type, but it did not matter, as long as I showed my devotion to the clan. Edge parting ace from _harellan_ may result treacherously quick to fade.  
Then I, the girl who was unaccustomed to bow and bend, hater of obedience, she who priced herself above anything else, the one who did not accept either _hahren_ or master, found the only teacher suited to match her pride and domesticate her dullness. I found death. I suffered losses. I could neither command, nor avert the harrowing from me. No tantrum, no threat would have worked. My arrows were useless, my bow little more than a toy. The rules of death and the laws of the clan were stronger than I was, and my people had done nothing to warn me. I had been encouraged to dominate, yet any power I strived to obtain was mere illusion. That was too humiliating. Too painful. I was almost eleven, and I found myself lost. It was then that my body vomited its magic, who had laid dormant, probably to never show itself.  
Once more, I was no longer master. I could only give in and follow.


	3. Alim

I did not have many friends; I not even desired them. I was content in my loneliness and felt satisfied of my hunting abilities, which I saw no reason to constrain, when I had to accustom to the inferior skills of my companions. Thence, I usually went alone into the wild or, if forced to follow, quickly crept away and let my fellows behind, only to reappear in time to reach camp before the sun was down. Once I became proficient in chasing by daylight, I started to practice at night. Darkness makes everyone a prey, yet, as long as you survive, you can learn much from predators. For months, I simply crawled out of my tent and left camp, climbing trees like a squirrel and spying owls and wolves hunt. I even had to improve my survival skills: three or four times I actually risked my life, but tricks I snatched from my attackers were to serve me thousand times, later.

One time, though, I had no credit in rescuing myself; someone intervened to help me with a nice little pack of wolves that were giving me lot of troubles. They must have been utterly hungry, for they looked like bags of bones. However skinny, I could provide enough meat to appease their belly before a more suitable prey was found; they hadn’t clearly the least intention to give up such a pretty nibble. I had been so dull and overconfident I just take a pair of knives with me; I was not so far from camp, after all, and my bow needed a little fix. I still find impossible to explain how foolishly I acted; were not for Alim, I would not be there to tell it.

When he arrived, I was trying to climb on the upper branches of an helm, unfortunately too thin to stand even my little weight. My attempt to to throw a knife at the one who appeared to be the leader had gone amiss. The beast, though young and starved, was clever; he avoided the stab with so much elegance I could not help admiring it, no matter how screwed it meant I was, and then started jabbing its claws into the trunk with deliberate anticipation. Its companions, quite puzzled by the way my weapon had darted to stick on the ground with a sudden hiss, relieved at its boldness: evidently, game was over. They were too excited to keep an eye on their backs and started whining in satisfaction. _Mythal’s mercy_. Thoughts were crazy hallas running through my mind. _Here you have, little stupid Innuin, you are going to die in the most I will be remembered as the dullest girl ever and tales will be told of me. Anyone will laugh at me hanging about at midnight with half and one knife_.

And then, it happened. Something like a fireball came in. It was a matter of few seconds: I hardly understood what was going on. I just know that what was left of my attackers backed in terror, wrecked to the point the pack scattered in every direction and disappeared in the woods, letting but trails of scorched furs. The branch I had grasped by instinct ruined on the ground; I crashed dangerously near the flames. Someone quickly grabbed my wrists and tugged me without ceremony in a safer corner. Then he knelt on me and slapped my cheeks.

-Are ye okay?

-Keep knocking me like that and you will be soon less okay than I am now, I can assure you- I retorted, trying to sound as menacing as I could with that little breath left in my lungs. I was relieved I had come through, of course, but it was definitely disappointing someone had surprised me in such an embarrassing situation. Maybe my saviour was one of those unbearable squirts infesting the camp; he would have had a great time jerking me around in front of his friends and strutting about after he just chanced to save my ass. I was harder nut than he could crack- I had to make sure he knew it. I looked at him, ready to find another insignificant snotty; nothing I could not easily get rid of, anyway. Instead, my eyes met a slim face I hardly remember I noticed before. His gaze had something mesmerizing about it, which pleased me at once. My scorn, however, was too great to admit it.

 The guy was slender and shorter than I had expected: he must have been at least eight or nine.

\- Hey, your quite lucky aren’t ye? What the hell were you doin’there?-  he asked, barely impressed. It annoyed me so much that I almost forgot my back was still aching and burns spotted both my legs and arms; I got up and towered over him. He was so thin that I could have thrown him away just snapping my fingers on his chest.

\- I am a hunter, just in case you did not know, I was minding my own business before you came-

\- Well, sorry if I interrupted yer sneak attack on those wolves: too clever of ye, thought you were up shit creek. Must be some trick of ye crackerjacks. You know, mages aren’t smart with games. See ya around, then!- he answered and simply turned his back as if it was the most natural thing to do. I sensed no sarcasm in his words, but a faint smile flashed across his lips while he was turning. He was smart, the kid.

\- Wait- I blurted out.

He stopped but did not turn.

-I…who are you? -  I wished I could thank him; he had gained my respect, somehow, and eventually chanced to have saved my life. Unfortunately, I was too used to people fearing me or trying to make me pay for my arrogance; I was not good at being nice.

\- Don’t mind. Your welcome- he answered. Then he disappeared. Faded like a spirit, stealthy as a fox. And he had kind of read my mind. I sneaked back to camp and throw myself in bed, trying to ignore how strangely mortifying that all felt.


	4. The lad from the Dire

In the following days, I tried to know who my rescuer was. Our clan count more than sixty people, always busy to spin around and pretend they were doing something of capital importance. Of course we all knew each other, yet, however hostile to outsiders, not even the most conservative clans could help losing their members and acquiring new ones. The elders trained us to worship our gods and honour traditions but, despite their efforts, death, birth and other primal drives outmatched even the strongest bonds. As for me, I had never taken great care of what my kinsmen passed, as long as they let me be. I realized how little observant I had been towards my clan mates. Things that I had always spurned at came to importance and I asked myself why I had isolated myself from others, and why they had let me do so. How fragile were the bonds we so proudly claimed to feed towards friends and relatives? How truly dedicated we could be to our clan, and how much we really cared for each other’s happiness? I did not know them for real. It must have been just a flaw of mine, for other kids like me spent most of their time together and seemed content. Yet, for those who could not boast common skills- either because they lacked them or were gifted with something rare enough to set them apart- nights were spent far from campfires and days passed in solitude. At least, I elected to be the lone wolf; my gaze missed that sparkle of resentment gleaming in their eyes. They held grudge, and how could it not be? They simply did not choose to be different. However, it startled me that someone so proud about differences, as the Dalish praised themselves to be, could prove so cruel and insensitive. The whole thing was utterly clear to me, when I made out that the boy who dispersed the wolf was an orphan, not raised by the clan but rather welcome, so to speak, after some hunters discovered his senseless body into the wild. He must have escaped from one of the towns nearby; he probably travelled a lot, getting deeper into the forest and trying to leave behind Mythal knows who or what. That thing- whatever it was- finally lost his track, but woods are hostile to those unaccustomed to their perils and he almost died. It was a miracle he had survived enough our rangers could find him unconscious. They were not supposed to pass through the Dire Hollow, as we called a gloom depression of the forest, where live oaks grew so thick you could not catch the slightest sight of the sky. It was a dusky place, one our hunters carefully avoided. Demons were said to infest the area; according to the Keeper, the Veil had been outraged by some terrible violence and laid ragged, jealous of its own wounds. People fell asleep under those trees, never to wake up, or they suffered horrible dreams and went mad after few time. Walking through the hollow implied an offence to Dirthamen, who clearly had wrapped it in its cloak, still lingering from the branches to forbid any light. I myself disliked the place: there was too much darkness; the smell of damp bark was almost unbearable, moisture made breathing uneasy and sounds too remote to allow a clear perception of what moved in the bushes. Yet, once, a halla got lost and Inullin and Fernil went to search for the poor beast. She was dead when they found her, somewhere in the deep Dire. However intimidated by the place, Fernil, one of our most valuable archers, tried to gather clues of what could have killed her: whatever it might have been, it did not leave any visible sign of its passage. Instead, they discovered a young elf lying senseless not far from the _halla_. They discussed quietly for a while; the boy was alive, yet certainly starved and exhausted. His dress suggested he belonged to alienage population rather than to a disbanded clan. In any case, he was too young to wear _vallaslin_. He might have been exiled or abandoned on purpose. What if he was possessed? What if the whole thing was a trick? What if he was to wake up mad, as it had occurred to many, after they took a nap in the Dire? If Dirthamen’s magic had not spared Dalish blood, how could it turn away from _flat-ears_? Innulin was worried. He had often proved himself one of the most superstitious man I have ever met. The whole business looked to him dull and scary enough without even endangering the clan for the sake of someone they could not trust. Maybe a curse or a disease stroke the boy and it might easily spread to anyone who helped him. If something was to be done, then they could leave some water and food near the lad, just in case he awoke. The discussion was becoming more and more unfriendly as the time passed, for Innulin did not intend to help the child and Fernil refused to abandon him. Such kind of disputes can easily degenerate in feuds; we Dalish are quick-tempered and often ill considered. I suppose it must be a side effect of our rather passionate nature which, however easily disguised with discretion or even scowl, never fails to show, regardless how introvert one might be or how sternly raised by his or her clan. Eventually, something odd happened: a wolf came out from the bushes. He must have been a vanguard of a larger pack; it did not seem impressed by the two hunters, though it stopped, rather surprised to find anyone in that corner of the forest, usually deserted by humans. The elves had blades in their hands, but the beast did not back at their sight. Instead, it sat and watched at them lazily. It either expected them to leave or considered something pleasing, for it looked at ease. It even scratched its ears and yawned, waiting and watching them intently. Perhaps it understood they were not an easy prey, but the boy would have certainly worked.  It was a matter of patience. _Just leave them go and take what belonged to none_.

\- Hey ya heard it, didn’t ye? - Fernil said.

\- Heard what? - Innulin retorted. Was Fernil trying to fool him like a jackass?

\- Someone said something -

\- Are you kidding me, or what? None said anything-

  _For the lad is clearly not one of your people_. _Then let him here, let him die_. _They just go and he takes what remains_.

\- Innulin, _lethallin_ , something is wrong here. Just let’s take the boy and leave-

\- Here you come again. Told ya I won’t take him back-

\- Didn’t you see that wolf? He has come for the boy. He will slain him as soon as we turn on our heels. Seriously, you can’t ask me to leave now-

\- The _what_? Which wolf are you babbling about?

Fernil gazed around. There was no sign of the wolf. Gone. The pack would have reached them, soon. They were near. He could sense their warm breath, the smell of their bristly fur, coated with mud and blood. He did not waste time to ask himself whether it all was just a hallucination or it was happening for real. A sudden terror came upon him: the wolves were on their track. He hurried to the boy and carried him on his shoulders, fastening him to the chest with his quiver’s straps, then pushed Innulin ahead and roared, in a commanding tone, “Run fast as you can, don’t turn back”.

 - _Fenedhis_ , Fernil, what the heck…-

Then, Innulin saw something creeping throughout the bushes. Something that froze his heart and set fire to his heels. He outrun Fernil and both flied desperately out of the forest. They reached camp exhausted and terrified, but they simply could not explain what had happened. Fernil said he had felt a sudden and uncontrollable dread, as an entire pack of wolves was upon them. Innulin refused to speak and took many days to recover from the whole thing. The boy was feverish and stood unconscious for about five nights: the Keeper despaired he made through the sixth. He tried to apply magic on his wounds, but the lad seemed to have a thin sort of barrier around his body, which forbade any other spell to reach his body. He was a mage, certainly an unexperienced one, for the barrier spell showed some roughness practiced enchanters lacked, yet his will must have been particularly strong to last when his physical strengths were consumed. _He must be wandering in the Fade_ , the Keeper said to Fernil, who had taken the boy under his protection and never let his side. _He might die or wake up possessed_. It _was generous of you to rescue him, but you underestimated consequences that we all might pay dearly_. _His will is powerful: he may resist the Fade, but what if he fails? You certainly understand the demon could be too strong for us to stop it._ Aye, of course, he understood. Fernil bore Keeper’s words in silence, and looked intently to the boy. He had a son, once. A mage. The clan banished him: his magic was unstable, his spirit restless. He could attract demons. Seven years had passed since then: he did not know where his son was. He resolved that very night he was going to fly with the lad carried on his back. He was good at herbal poultices and he had learnt pretty well some tricks the former healer showed him. He could look after the boy. The wolves were likely to pursue them again, but he could run fast and had some grenades of his own, which should have gained him a useful bit of advantage. They might have been safely headed to town after dawn, let just them survive the night. Whether the boy was to wake up or to turn into a demon, he was not facing it alone, as his child had to be. And was he to die, Fernil thought, he could die with him too: nothing more was left to him, in a world in which magic could taint love and kinship and turn them into hatred and betrayal. He rose and reached his tent to gather his ownings- a matter that required some time, since he possessed only few things but needed to refill his supplies of herbs and concoctions. He was still at work with a few deathroots he had to go and pick up nearby the camp, when the Keeper sent for him: fever had left the boy. He was safe and the barrier he was unconsciously holding had started fading after few minutes his temperature lowered. He was safe and bore no visible sign of possession. In the days that followed, he recovered slowly yet completely and was then able to speak. None asked what his origin was- they somehow understood something sorrowful must have happened, which he would rather not have talked about, and left him be. However caring they showed to the kid, they looked at him with suspicion; had him not been granted protection by Fernil, a man who many of our bravest warriors did not dare to challenge at fight, things would have gone totally different. They knew what Fernil had been through; he was probably the best hunter we had, a quiet fellow, yet best not be provoked; the clan both needed him and feared his reaction. He has grown exceedingly attached to the boy; sending him away, again, could not be without consequences. Alim- this was the lad’s name- joined Lavellans as a new member. Yet, too many were discontent with him and muttered at his back: the Keeper had been negligent, to say the least, and Fernil threatened clan’s safety with his unacceptance of the risks magic implied. He was not the only one to have lost a son or a daughter in similar circumstances, yet none had been so insane to expose his brethren to a potential abomination. Some were genuinely concerned of who Alim really was and might become; respecting his reticence had certainly been an act of kindness, yet it begot more doubts, when not terror, about what went unspoken. Yet, of course, the most were far from asking themselves too many questions: they merely grudged Fernil his happiness, for they had no way to replace who was lost. It was not right he had something they were denied, a semblance of fatherhood he pursued no matter if it meant sacrificing them all. They ate the meat he chased and dressed his pelts but, for the rest, started avoiding him as well as his freshly acquired son. _Troubles come from what is against nature_ , they said. Some of them were wrapped in the same fur his bow had supplied them.

 


	5. Scorched

If he felt somehow segregated by the rest of our clan, Alim did not show excessive concern about that. He acted nonchalantly, however ready he proved to give aid when his magic was requested. He was a fast learner, too, and the Keeper looked pleased of how well his training progressed. I collected my information all in a week or two of careful watching; though I never approached him directly, I tried to follow him as closely as I could avoid him to notice my manoeuvres. I justified myself at my own eyes saying I did not need to feel obliged, I had thanked him already, although the way had been quite odd. I did not intend to waste my time after a snot-covered mage, risking to everyone’s mockery. They were going to claim he was my boyfriend, as they always did, anytime a girl showed the slightest clue of interest to a lad. They wanted to look adults, rather than act alike: it was infuriating. The truth was that, despite my protested scowl, I feared their antics: they hurt my pride like arrows shot through my heart. Moreover, I was utterly afraid of talking to Alim; deep down in my heart, it had been long ago I had started feeling lonely, and I still did not accept it. It meant needing someone else, admitting that I could not just count on myself. Had he welcomed my friendship, I could have regretted my compliance, later. Who could say how far they might get, once I shortened the distance I had carefully managed to set, between all of them and me! They used to be so intruding. Unless you were strong enough to assert your supremacy and either command or get rid of them, they simply overbore you. They stole each other’s things, they were not ashamed to reveal each other’s secrets and spent their time quarrelling and complaining and feeding nonsensical rivalry. Of course, it was all part of the great game: learning how to chase, court, love and own a position within the clan. Still, there was a chance he simply dismissed my friendship, but I would have felt mortally outraged and despised, then, no matter how predictable his refusal might be. I feared both rejection and acceptance and was too silly to sit down and try to gather my courage and try to make through. Instead, I stalked Alim, trying to understand him; each day I went down in this one-sided acquaintance I realized he was a clever, kind boy, no matter how cocky he could behave. He was affectionate to Fernil, yet his attachment was quiet and he did not indulge in displaying it, particularly when he was in what humans may call _public_. We Dalish are rather social in our manifestations, though clans may greatly differ one from another, as well as individuals. Anyway, we spend most of our time together, outside our tents; restraining our opinions and feelings, when we partake to clan’s life, is generally tolerated only if you are not born amongst the Few. Otherwise, discretion can easily be misinterpreted as duplicity, provided they do not hold you a lunatic or a particularly solitary nature, which is, in any case, rather odd for a Dalish. He was definitely not one of our kind; he did not even affected belonging, which one could expect from an outlander, begging for acceptance: yet, he was not the type to beg, and I learnt to appreciate this side of his personality, which could not but make his company more appealing to me. He even used to spend a lot of time on his own. As long as he wandered near the camp, once the Keeper had dismissed him from his lessons, my hide and seek was not that complicated: I could lie in the bushes for hours, still like a corpse, making treasure of those same tricks I almost died to grasp from woodlands predators. But, when he either practiced magic with other pupils or attended his tasks sitting near his tent, or inside it, I had my hardest time in staying unseen. I was often forced to give up and fall back on my previous occupations and yet, hunting was not pleasant as it used to be, and I just gathered what I needed. Then, I stuffed my prey in my leather sack, the one I always bore hanging at my shoulder, and sat somewhere, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I even perceived something did not work, and it was not completely my fault. I needed years to give a definite shape to these thoughts, but even as rough and ignorant as I was, I could already grasp we were unhappy. Life in the clan was not different than fighting the constant struggle that, eventually, any hunter witnesses: how a pack works, how individuals are forced to cooperate just to protect the whole from incoming threats, only to attack each other later, when it comes to mating and obtaining a share of either food or power. I had listened what they murmured of Fernil, when he could not hear. I had seen how jealous they were of their meaningless belongings, despite the clan was said to be the only true owner of all our resources. I had watched and spied many things they did, many things they said, and I found no correspondence between their actions and what our Keeper seemed never tired to repeat, about or legacy, our nobility, our gods. It did not take an intellectual to wonder how they allowed such incoherence, whence it had originated, when they started going so blind. The wild was easy to understand; rules Nature had stated never changed, rewards were nothing abstract and failure meant dying. Death could come under many different aspects: starvation, cannibalism, predation. She was mocking, ferocious, unrestrained, yet her constant looming revived that indomitable drive to feed and generate every being carries deep in its guts. It was a fair trade, after all, one whose benefits society was hardly able to reproduce. It simply strangled its members, trying to force them into a shape it found convenient for its own subsistence, rather than for life’s sake itself. Odd enough, the outcomes of both social life and death threatens were the same: making their victims act irrationally, as scared beast pushed in a trap and let there to whine, too weak to figure out a way of escape. I found no sense in it all, and I found no sense in my wondering, too. I was deep in my gloomy reflections, when Alim surprised me sitting on a branch, my legs hanging down from the tree like some strange kind of fruit.

-Here you are. I started worrying I hadn’t ye around.

I almost fumbled down; that was unexpected. I did not even realize what he was implying. No matter how absentminded my elucubrations could have kept me, I was too confident in my skills to believe he could have tricked me. None could approach me and go unnoticed: of all my senses, hearing was the one I was reknown for; not even the sharpness of my eyes could match it.

-What are you talking about?-

- _What are you talking about_ \- he mimicked; his eyes were bright with laughter;

-Come on, you really think I did not realize you were stalking me like a shadow? You could even have told me you like me. There is nothing bad about it.

-I did not stalk anyone, you are dreaming of it. I have my own business to mind, and you should do it as well. Suppose your dad needs you somewhere else. What if Keeper is calling you?

He turned suddenly serious, and I immediately regretted my harsh demeanour. I must have offended him, of course I had.

-I see, you are too cool and smart to bend over a silly mage does not even belong to your people. I hoped you were…well, never mind. I will not bother you anymore, should you curse me somehow with your hunting deity powers: I care for my eyes, you know. Just don’t kid me, I knew what I saw. I understand your worship couldn’t bear mockery by her brethren, provided She found enough spunk to tell me what she really thinks. Now, if you allow me…- he bowed slightly and then moved back towards camp.

\- No, wait!

I could not help stopping him. I felt so humiliated: he was right. I jumped down from the branch, awkwardly grasping his arm.

-I…am sorry. I did not mean to offend you. I am nothing like _them_ , I swear.

He turned. He was smirking, the little bastard: I had been outsmarted so easily! I retired my hand and looked at him, my scorn so evident he could barely conceal how much he was enjoying himself.

-You!- I spat out, with all the indignation I was able to express without slapping him right in the face.

\- I knew it would have worked! Why are ye so complicated? See, now you’re mad at me, I’m terribly amused and we’re probably going to fight, and you know how much I have improved my fireballs, lately, whereas your bow, well, it’s a tiny bit…rusted. Good that there’s not better friendship than one started with a few scorched skin, or so they said to me.


	6. A call for dreamers

It all began that day. We became friends, somehow, however struggled were the arrangements our personalities needed to suit each other’s. To me, he was an intellectual; to him, as well to any other mage, rangers such as me were close to barbarians, and we were children, after all, not yet completely used to master reality without melting it with a fair amount of fantasy. We were constantly fighting: I was easy to offend, he was not able to take anything too seriously- or so I had believed. Getting to know him, I found his sensibility was rivalled only by his ability to abide it. He faced almost every situation with an underlying sarcasm I could hardly stomach. I cannot say which use he found in befriending someone like me, but I certainly know I learnt to be humbler and softer, spending my time at his side, and I even started smiling more often. I still avoided people and disliked crowded places, which I still do, yet I was now able to appreciate the value of having some close friends. Getting him to respect my touchiness was such a challenge, I had to fight with him several times about the subject: as a result, I lost a bit of my pride and acquired some habit in expressing my feeling and opinions, rather than stubbornly stare at my feet and remain silent. At the time of our first fights, I occasionally glanced at him in expectation, hoping he would come to me and excuse himself of his conduct. Those rare times my look met his, however, I was scorned to find he was smirking knowingly. Once, I asked him why, and his cheeky response was that he was perfectly aware I was trying to gain an apology from him, which he would have probably given, was he not so incredibly amused by my scowl. He even said he had made a bet with himself about how much was it going to take, before I got tired of sitting with my arms crossed and a gloomy look stamped on my face. Indeed, he found my grumpy countenance rather humorous: I still cannot understand how I could have stood, from him, antics the like would have traded, to anyone else, lot of troubles with my arrows. Anyway, we were spending a lot of time together and soon, against all my expectations, I ceased to worry about what our clan’s kids said about our proximity. He followed me when he had not to study, and I even succeeded in teaching him some useful tricks about hunting and surviving into the woods. Furthermore, whenever it was allowed without risks, I could assist to mages’ training: I would not have ever exchanged my life with theirs, that was true, yet I grew fascinated with their powers and with all the things they had to know. I even started appreciating some quiet activities, such as reading that little writings our culture could offer, studying and listening to the Keeper’s lessons about the four school of human magic and the way our elvhen enchanting arts differ from theirs. I had always been fond of stories, just as every Dalish is; for nothing else than tales I liked sitting by night at campfire’s edge, quite on my own, yet close enough to catch someone telling those wondrous stories of Arlathan. As perchance I have already said, I was not the religious type: not at that time. I saw no evidence of our gods, no certainties about what either Halamshiral or whatever came before it might have looked like. I had scarcely experience of the Fade, at least nothing impressively different from any other elf or human: I fell into it when I slept, only to find shadows reviving what I had heard in Keeper’s tales. Sometime I dreamt of chase and I saw myself scouting the wilds, some other time I simply awoke with no memory of my dreams. I had nightmares, too, yet not that often. Lately in those months, however, things had slightly changed. Along with my curiosity for magical subjects, my hunger for tales had remarkably increased. I had always hoped I was destined to be a hero; exploring and hunting can be quite boring, no matter how skilled you are or how much you may like it. There will always be a time in which you will feel tired; perhaps, your prey will let you wait too much before showing itself; that rather common herb your elders sent you to gather will grow in uncomfortable spots, giving you a lot of trouble, while attempting to reach them. Least you scout in company, which is preferable for your own safety, you might appreciate the pleasure of solitude, yet none will be there to distract you with a few chatting. I overcame this inconvenient by fancying I was up to some heroic quest, such as reconquering the world to elvhen people, defeating Dark Spawn and many other wonderful adventures, which will gain me honour, respect and glory. It was not different from what other kids made: just, I made it alone, and it all happened in my mind, where every particular was defined perfectly- I had a lot of time at my disposal, after all. I fed my fantasy with things I heard near the fire and, before Alim, stories were all I thought I could ever know about the world, every possible tool my imagination could find. My dreams, my fantasies, they were shaped on this tales: for the rest, I kept them for myself, until I grew tired of them, because they were not real and could not satisfy the hunger for adventure I started feeling. Once Alim explained to me how magic worked, how he experienced the Fade, those tales became puzzles to me. For the first time in my life, I did not give up to evidence, but tried to look behind. If I wondered so much about the several contradictions my brethren seemed used to deal with, why could I not wonder about many more things? If Fade could look so different, depending on who travelled it; if life itself was so different to a mage from what it was to me; if men and elves could have created differing forms of magic, what did it take to me for watching through different eyes? That was far more fascinating than dreaming of conquers and battles, far less abstract, so much more intriguing than trying to learn how wolves, owls and bears acted to gain their prey. Perhaps, if I had managed to change my point of view, some explanation I missed could have disclosed itself to my questioning, allowing me to find that answers I was looking for. I was not even able to understand which kind of answers I was actually seeking- not always, at least. For most of the time, I only perceived reality looked like a shattered mirror I lacked shards to recompose, and this feeling, however vague, kept me uncomfortable. As long as my conscience was awakening, my dreams changed. They ceased to represent merely fears and experiences I had in my waking life: they started to feel real. Sometimes, things were shown, there, I had never saw the like before: I was hunted by presences I could not clearly see, I ran and chased, yes, but the creatures I pursued were dragons and others, which I not even knew how to name. I visited places of stunning beauty, whom my heart ached to leave, when the time came for me to wake up. Some of them were never to show up again, neither in my dreams nor in my life; some others recurred for several nights and, when I visited them in my travels with my Inquisition fellows, I had grown so accustomed to them that I knew them like they had been my native home. When I spoke of it with Alim, he looked at me with a dreadfully serious face and silenced me with a gesture.

“There is something I have to tell you. Something that you must promise never to speak of. And you, too, should not say to anyone else what you have just told me. “

This alarmed me. “Alim, what’s wrong? They are just dreams! Why you say that to me?”

“Hush! We cannot speak now, not here. Come with me. But promise, first. That is a serious business, Innuin, trust me, please, I know what I say. You must swear, for your own sake and mine, too”

“Fine, fine, I swear, just don’t panic, you are scaring me to death”

“In any case, it is still not enough”

He grabbed my hand and led me away. We walked for almost an hour, in utter silence. He looked gloomy and worried, and such an unexpected countenance disquieted me, despite any attempt of behaving calmly. He was not used to be so serious, not even when we talked of his deepest concerns about Fernil and the way he was growing dark and isolated, the ostracism Lavellans showed to both of them, the mastery of magic, which had lately become harder for him to gain, as if something obscured his focus. I glanced at his face, searching for any other hints of thoughts running through his mind, apart from that torn frown which had not left him, since I revealed him my dreams. Something strange bit my heart: I was unfamiliar to me. I stopped him. We were far enough from camp and the spot was rather quiet. I looked at him: he seemed so tired and so much older than his actual age. I felt a sudden need to touch him: it should have stopped that uncomfortable feeling I could not give any explanation. He stared at me. His eyes were wet: he was crying. The feeling became clearer: it was a jolt of melting pain, terror and rage, and whilst I read his glare, for only a moment, I believed I could understand what he was going to say.

“Alim, what is that you are concealing from me? What is on your mind? What is going to happen?”

A blind fury came on me. He was hiding something from me, something so terrible he was even unable to utter a sound. I grasped his thin shoulders and tossed him fiercely.

“Speak, now”

“You are developing magic, just like your mother before you, and her mother, too. You are more than a simple mage: you have the gift, as well as I do. This means a curse for your clan, and for yourself. Dreamers are doomed, destined to death and despair. In no case two dreamers are allowed to stay both in the same clan: one of them must leave. Few can conceal their nature: it takes a great focus, and threatens from demons are more severe to those of our kind. A dreamer calls a dreamer, and they can be each other’s undoing. Such as we are. ”


	7. The trembling hare- Part One

I have carried my burden of grief, so many times; yet, of all the shapes it can assume to torture a soul, being abandoned and losing the ones we love are the most unbearable of all. Arrows piercing your flesh, rusted traps clasping your legs, feverish nights spent without rest, nightmares, starvation, illness of any sort: I have experienced them all, but I would rather go through all of them together again, than facing that dreadful sense of despair, that gloom, of seeing the world around you transfigured in a wasted land of darkness. Sounds reach your ears, but the core of your self is locked far away, wrapped in wicked veils. Your eyes see through a curtain of fog, robbing everything of its former light, up to the point you can barely perceive what surrounds you and any colour looks like grey to your sight. Sleep lingers heavy on your weary eyelids, sitting over them, like a shadow amid the desert, and, when you wake up, senses are insufferably keen, for your body goes on living, aching, desiring, hungered, in need, oblivious of whatever your heart might crave. This oh too well trained machine you have been exerting, through years, in pursuit of survival, is now making its job with blind efficiency: it drags you, passively bound to its primal drives, forcing upon you its unwanted endurance. One day, perhaps, you will be grate of its stolid loyalty to your own subsistence: right now, it feels extraneous, just like everyone else moving around you, mere echoes in a moonless night.

I have struggled through all this, for so many times. I know how it works: I learnt to rely on my body, whilst my spirit lies, torn apart. Still, despite how practiced I might be, every new wound inflicted to my soul is far from dispel the memory of former sufferings. It cannot but revive old scars. My spirit had always been strong and I steeled it through pain, far beyond its previous capacity. Yet, the day Alim left remains one the most grievous moments of my life, paralleled just by few others, since I had no hope to see him again, no way to convince him to stay, and only a little understanding of what was really happening.

After what he had said, I stared at him for several minutes: world could have collapsed, and I would have not realized it. I did not even loosen my grip on his shoulders: rather, my hands slipped somehow to his forearms, but I stopped him from running, which he was certainly intentioned to do, for he struggled a while to free himself and then gave up, averting his eyes, as he was ashamed by himself or, perhaps, by me.  As soon as I was able to work out what he actually meant, I dragged him nearer and hissed:

 - By gods’ sake, what are you talking about? What is a _dreamer_? How do you know anything about my mother? Who are you?-

He winced in an effort to back, trying to set some space between us.

\- A dreamer is…someone who can roam the Beyond at his or her will. It begins slowly, with dreams that look somehow more…vivid, as you said, full of things you have never seen before. Sleeping becomes more desirable, dreams are more and more lucid at each passing week. Your body rests better than ever and, when you wake up, you can remember even the smallest detail of your visions, just like you were there, in the flesh. You start knowing things you never experienced, or noticing what you never cared for. It is what we call _Awakening_. Then, you learn to master your powers in the Fade. You grow bold, willing to explore more, deeper, and start shaping things, memories, _people_ …And eventually, you find you are not alone, not any more. You shall see, there are dreamers such as you wandering your same paths, together with…others. –

\- Who are those “others” you speak of?-

He looked troubled, disclosed his lips to utter something, yet remained silent, watching at me with an expression my heart still aches to recall.

\- Would you fear me if I tell you? Would you reject me? Everyone does.-

\- How could I reject you, the only friend I have? How can you speak like this? How could you hide this all from me, if you suspected I was a dreamer, too?

I let him slip away from my hands: I was so furious he did not trust me, so embittered by his silent accusation I might treat him just as anyone else could do. Suddenly, ant physical contact with him had become intolerable.

This time, it was my turn to step back, as if the slight distance I set between his chest and mine could somehow gain any solace to my raging thoughts. Yet, he followed me with unexpected solicitude, something I had never imagined he was able to express. The sardonic, smart Alim I knew had crashed like a shattered mask, leaving him bare face, and letting me see how fragile, pained and yet caring my friend could really be. How little I had known him, and yet, how hard I had had to struggle, even to gather such a small, deceitful acquaintance. Had it not been for my apparent belonging to the species of dreamers, would he have ever allowed me to witness such a full display of his true self? Or was he rather going to have me standing forever at the threshold of his heart, unknowingly, convinced to have his full trust on whatever matter of his life, like a dull little girl raised in blindness and never freed from her fallacy? Was I so weak, so stupid not to be able to grasp what really troubled him? I was mad at him, the liar, and at me as well, the fool, who proved so dumb not to see he wore only a mask, just the last of the many he possessed: one for the clan, one for his father, one for the Keeper, maybe even one for himself: then, why not one for me, too? I was no better match than his “father”, to deserve to see him as he really was. Fury, jealousy, pride, old friends I once used to welcome, came fast in aid of my wounded heart, thundering like an avalanche, storming like the tempest, when it rumbles amid the fierce pinnacles of the Dirthavaren.

Despite how eagerly he had tried to detach himself before, he was now pursuing me, seeking for my hand to grab it and hold in his own; but anger is an easy fire to set and I denied him any contact, crossing my arms and standing like a stone, barely helping from gritting my teeth like the beast I was before I knew him.

\- Enough, now. Speak. Who are these others?-

He looked reluctant: I had not granted him with my comprehension, after all, yet he must have felt compelled to tell me the truth, after having eluded it for too long, for, after a while, he plainly retorted:

\- Very well, since you ask. You have the right to know. They are demons. They feel attracted by dreamers, more than by anyone else wandering the Fade. We are conscious: that means we can provide a better mirror of what lies out of their world, which they crave to explore just as we do in regard of the Beyond. Some of them approach us gently, with no apparent inclination to harm us; you may well grow confident with them, and even believe they are not, by any means, a threat to your safety, either for their own will or for the mastery you could presume to have gained on them. Nothing can be worst of such a foolish reliance. Eventually, one of them will seize you as his prey, follow you, stalk you without rest, in your dreams and even out of them, if he is powerful enough or your strength is considerably lessened by lack of sleep. Until you can roam it safely, Fade can reveal you wonderful treasures and precious knowledge. But let yourself have only a weak spot, an unfulfilled desire, anything a demon may grasp to turn it into an edge for itself, and you are doomed. No matter how long, you are going to give up. Struggling a demon requires too much focus, and one should never face this battle alone: but we are alone, indeed, at least in most cases. None wants us. None accepts what we are, not even among other mages. People believe we no longer exist; that is false. However few, we still live in disguise among common mages. Many of us barely admit to themselves the real nature of those odd dreams, visiting them every night. Many trust their elders and reveal their secret, full of confidence, when not completely unaware. Those are immediately exiled, or disappear, letting no trace behind. Others are hidden by Keepers and must endure an entire life of deceptions, constantly threatened by their own gift. We can derive great power and wisdom from the Beyond, but it comes at a cost. To find power, to find wisdom, you have to look for them, and the more you go deep into the Fade, the more challenging and treacherous demons become.

\- If so, then, how can you see others dreamers? Can they not help you? How can you sense another like you or even “ _call a dreamer_ ”, as you said before?-

I was still angry with him, yet I also wanted to know more.

He let a sigh. - I suppose it is better to sit. Things are complicated. –

\- **I** can stand on my feet. You may sit, if it helps you- I answered, a lofty pitch ringing in my words.

My eyes followed him while he lowered to sat on the ground, leg crossed, a faint smile on his sad face.

\- I see you are mad at me, Innuin, but things are…different from what you may think. I did not mean to fool you. I cannot suspect any magical inclination in you. Until you are fully conscious, when you step into the Fade, there is no way for any other dreamer to sense your presence. It is even likely dreamers do not pay you any attention, or some realize you are near them, yet they are too busy in their own dreams to stop and greet you. Moreover, you could be a demon in disguise. And, furthermore, you will learn very soon to protect yourself from wanderers like you: loneliness does not necessarily implies any empathy towards those who share your same destiny. In fact, many dreamers are even worse monsters than demons infesting the darker corners of the Fade. They may desire to manipulate you, either to gain further power or to take a revenge of what they have to pass. Others are scared of their gift, a gift that they did not chose, even more onerous than bare magic itself. They have still a hard time managing mana outbursts, let alone Fade-stepping strolls. They are loose cannons, ready to shot anything they find on their way. Better you are a fast learner: you will need some spell to screen yourself, very soon, so that you can slip through anything as safer as possible. Demons provide enough troubles: you will not miss more unwanted pursuers, won’t you?-

\- Yet, you said a dreamer calls a dreamer. How so?-

His eyes wandered somewhere away, into the deep forest ahead. Sun was slowly rolling down the slope of the sky. A light breeze came from the heart of the woodlands, carrying crackles, feeble rustling and all the little noises of creatures sneaking back to their lairs, before darkness surprised them and, along with it, nightly predators. A sweet scent of timber, blood and earth filled my nostrils: it was the call of the wild, so dear to hunters’ heart, and yet it pained me: I felt something was lost. My senses had always been so keen, yet they missed the used focus, like a wheel spinning loosely. I felt an emptiness the luxuriant appeal of the forest could not but sharpen. Disquieted, I gazed around and then decided to sit, hoping it could help my unease. I lowered my knees and sat before Alim, careful to keep some distance.

\- For that, I have no answers. I don’t know how it works. I just know the faculty of dreaming is often a legacy, something passing through blood. However, dreamers tend to elicit powers like their own in those who have a potential, due to personal inclination or, say, to heritage. It is like a song spreading from our spirits, one that only other dreamers can perceive, and that draws the dormant to the Awakening.

\- It is rather odd, to call _awakening_ the rise of anything related to dreams, and _dormant_ who simply sleeps like normal people do- I noticed.

\- Yes- he chuckled- indeed. But I was taught so.

-Who taught you?

\- My mother. Your mother’s sister. She was in another clan. Another clan of the Lavellans. She left long before your mother had you. Your clan never speak of them, of course. One of yours broke with his Keepers, accusing him of being too conservative and narrow minded. The Keepers challenged him to duel, as our traditional laws prescribe in such cases; but the man who claimed a renewal was needed was young and strong, and he could not accept to confront an old Keeper, which even chanced to be his own father. He said that youths must be brave and move on, letting the past into the past. He took some of his closest friends who believed in him and left his former clan, to reach the Northern regions of Ferelden, up to the Free Marches and the seaside. There they settled down, as a new Lavellan clan, and there I was born and raised. My mother was one of those who chose to follow Denethoriel, son of Endoril. She was a dreamer, too, and a talented mage: it did not take too much for her to be appointed Keeper of our clan. She taught me all she knew about the Fade, keeping our secret, until…something happened. I had to leave. I still have to; it is not just about you, I had to do it in any case and I just lingered here, like a fool. I am so sorry. I should have gone long before. I was not even meant to be here. I was not meant to be anywhere. Now you see, how comes I did not tell you anything.

I could not answer. Sun was but a red light, darting through the bushes like a blood tainted dagger. My mind was empty, my heart stood still, like a trembling hare that hides deep inside her den. Alim looked at me, but his face was dark and unfamiliar, backlit as it was. I wished I could cry, but not a single tear spilled out of my eyes.

 

  

 


	8. The trembling hare-Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I knew it would not have been easy; many things still laid, unrevealed, which I needed to know and which probably he needed to say. So great a burden, carried in solitude for such a long time, must have consumed his heart. He ought to share it, with me, free his poor, troubled soul from such a torment: I could help him, and I would. At once, deliverance seemed so at hand that I let out a beastly cry of relief- or was it triumph? I still cannot say.

Parental relationships are quite complex and may vary from tribe to tribe amidst the offspring of Elvhenan. When the memory of Arlathan’s fall still inflamed our minds, family was an indissoluble monad, made of father, mother and their children. Our ancestors opted for a life spent in wandering, just as long as it granted any resemblance of freedom: they did not like it. The first Dalish were neither the merciless savages shemlen fabled of, nor the nomadic, fearless warriors we like to depict ourselves as. Nowadays, we do not hold ourselves as barbarians, this is true, yet, we have grown accustomed to a certain roughness of habits, whom we indulge to, not without a hint of self-satisfaction. Anyway, from the time of the Exalted March, generations flew, faster than Enavuris crystal waters, whose slow waves were still tainted of our blood; our people spread along the many roads departing from the dire plains, whose warm winds we still felt caressing our backs, once we had left, never to return to the sweetness of Halamshiral. Memory turned in elegy, love rotted in pride, and sorrow brought chaos in our heart, making us lose focus on many things that really should have mattered more than mere rituals. Some tribes vehemently embraced such new life-style: _our culture had been destroyed, shemlen wanted us to be savage then let’s be wilder and more vicious than they could ever imagine_ , they must have thought. They became ferocious as the nastiest amidst predators could be; they lived in community, sharing everything, with no exception as for mates and children, bringing havoc wherever they went. Others simply retired in dignified self-reclusion, heading to the mountains, never to keep further contacts with clans that were left in the planes. There stood the conservatives, those who wanted to honour the old tradition they believed to have spared from the complete undoing of Arlathan. Few of them wandered the lands between Orlais and Ferelden, lazily circling the pained heart of Halamshiral, as someone, cherishing an old wound, could trace it with his finger, taking a sick delight in the way it still aches. Then, some of them adventured into the green meadows of Ferelden; the rebels, those who wanted to declare their independence from traditions or, simply, the most daring hearts, travelled to North, either desirous to visit the sea or in search of a better life. They accepted to deal with shemlen and even settled nearby their cities and towns, where they might hope to establish more flourishing trades. Somehow, word spread that Free Marches had proved themselves more open minded than fellow regions of Thedas, allowing Dalish to live quite peacefully on its ground. Conservatives spurned such display of liberality, jealous of the impression it may produce on those who, weary of the wilderness and tired of templars’ hunts, chose to fly to Amaranthine.

It was no surprise, then, that Denethoriel Lavellan, a man whom I had vaguely heard speaking of in terms of _harellan_ , had elected the Free Marches as a new home. But I am digressing, again, as it always happen, when I attempt a report and let myself be taken away by so many considerations now arising to my memory, after what I saw and discovered during my regency of the Inquisition. As I was saying before, parentage was treated quite differently among conservatives and more innovative clans, and this was no small reason for many to leave Orlais and southern Fereldan tribes. Whilst lately formed communities had found their own solutions to the problem, conservatives and wilder clans, to my extreme surprise, when I knew it, were similar, except for mating. The savages, as we called them, existed but in few and small communities, isolated between Tevinter and the Plains. Some of them lived in the borderlands of Avvar territories: yet, at my times, they were a limited part of the Dalish nation, doomed to decrease, year by year, due to both repression and self-confinement. As I previously said, they had no consideration for monogamy: children were raised by women, with little conception of who had materially conceived them. Traditionalists, as my clan piqued itself to be, would rather respect singular mating (although this rule was not without exceptions) but let children grow together, which loosened the exclusiveness of any affection, both by children and parent sides. We knew who our mother was, and did not call father a man who had played no part in our birth; however, rather than to our natural parents, we bestowed our real attachment to the hahren who taught us something we really cared for. Mage children usually loved their Keeper, as an actual mother or father, and could even grow fonder of him, or her, than of their real parents. For hunters and warriors, our master represented our one and real family, along with our fellows, with whom we learned to fall, rise again and stand on our own feet. Since  almost everything I knew had been learnt spying how adults chased and I had proved rebellious towards any teacher, I considered myself a self-taught huntress. Thus, no _hahren_ had earnt a special place in my heart, and I did not cherish anyone in particular. Apart from Alim, of course: he did teach me something, and he was the only family I could consider as truly mine.

Given the limited role parents played, I had few reasons to grieve my mother’s death. I never knew her. They only said to me I looked almost like her, brown haired, a shade between green and blue to make my eyes shimmer water-like. Alim said to me, once, that my eyes reminded him of someone he cared for, but I did not even try to enquire whom. He had spoken with a melancholy, a warmth so uncommon to his everyday demeanour that I feared I could hurt him, if I questioned him any further. Now I knew whom he was referring to: my mother and her sister must have looked very alike. They were twins, born on Ghilan’ain festivity, in a mild, moonlit night of October, as I was to know so much later.  I did not feel inadequate for being an orphan, either: things like that were no subject for mockery, at least according to the other kids of the clan.  They greeted almost every woman looking after them as _mamae_ , no matter who she was, and I had had someone to care for me, too, until I had not been able to stand on my feet and find my own way. Such a confidence is quite common within clans, since their blood is scarcely diluted; mating among relatives is so common that we all end up to be bound to each other, by more than one connection.

My clan did not drop further words about my mother; I had to be content with those vague remarks about our resemblance. Of course, I did not even know she had a sister, let alone they both were mages. What Alim had said, about magic awakening in my blood, could be true; however, I did not mean I believed it: I was all too well aware of the fact I had not manifested any magical inclination, as long as I was a child. It seemed unlikely I might have started right now, at the threshold of my first flow. I should have asked the Keeper, yet, in doing so, I could have endangered either my friend or myself. What could have happened of us, if he had spoken the truth, as I had no reason to doubt? Did the Keeper know he was a Dreamer? Could he suspect it, seeing that the potential had awakened in me, as if beckoned by a power akin? What was going to be, of me, a newly arisen Dreamer, niece to a _harellan_ acolyte? Did they even remember? Was their attitude towards me not just the outcome of my prideful countenance or, rather, even in the smallest way, a reminder of a much older grudge? I could not resolve. A thousand new questions had broken through my heart, about my mother, her sister, which I could hardly get used to call my aunt, and what could have happened to make Alim escape from his clan. Yet, a gloomy silence lingered between us- a thick, black veil, hanging from the sky as it had outran the falling darkness. Soon the night would have come, and we were alone in the woods: it was too dangerous, and we should have moved long before. I had to decide quickly: asking for more answers and wasting precious time, or simply grabbing Alim’s hand and run back to the camp, before we could not even see where we were stepping. Maybe, later, once camp had fallen asleep, there would have been a chance for us to sneak out and find a quiet, safer corner, where firelights were still visible and beasts did not dare to approach. We could have spent all night talking, safe from the clan, safe from predators, safe from Dreams, if any demon was to threaten our sleep. Suddenly, camp seemed a sweet place to come back: my heart ached in desire, and I stood up and broke the silence.

\- It’s getting darker, and we cannot stay here forever. Fernil will come and look for us and, you know, it’s no good. Come with me, give me your hand: let’s go home.

He watched me as if I had struck him with a punch. There was no anger, no grudge in my words. I still felt hurt by how long he had been hiding the truth from me but, in all that whirlwind, few certainties were left to count on, and I hoped his friendship was among them. It was perhaps the most precious thing still standing in the ruins his revelations had made of my previous life. I loved him: he had been the only one able to penetrate through the harshness of my temper, the only one I still trusted, even after he had concealed so much from me. Moreover, as it seemed, he held the key of any little knowledge I could still gather about my actual family, whom he even chanced to be part of. How could I hate him? All I wanted, right now, was to lead him safely to camp and ensure that he did not escape. At least, not without me.

\- I told you, I can’t come back- he answered quietly.

\- It’s just for tonight, Alim. Tomorrow we’ll leave, together. If you want, Fernil shall come with us. I suppose you didn’t want to leave him alone, did you. Does he know?

\- He has always known it all, from the beginning. Maybe he did not recognize me when he found me into the Dire, but suspicion arose, the night I arrived at the camp and Keeper couldn’t awake me from the Fade. He knew Denethoriel, he remembered what happened and why my mother left.

\- How could him relate you with things happened so many years ago? They all say I look quite similar to my mother, and maybe she was similar to her sister, too, but you…

\- Oh, as for me, I took from my father: Fernil knew him quite well. But yes, you remind me so much of my mother…-

He came near me and lifted my chin, staring into my eyes. Sundown set his red locks on fire: I felt wrapped in burning flame. A sting of raging pain struck my heart when I looked at him: his eyes were unnaturally green. A dread roar thundered in my head and I held my breath in terror. He looked at my face and immediately his grasp lessened, his hand slipped and he stepped back with an expression I could not read.

\- What was that? Did you hear it too? - I asked

He hesitated and then shook his head in denial.

\- I must be tired, I’m sorry. Anyway, if Fernil knows, we can leave with him. There is nothing left here, for anyone of us. We can travel quite safely, head to the North, find your clan. Whatever you might have done, they will understand: we will have a fresh new start, together. You will tell me everything, teach me how to be a good, wise dreamer, and we will be happy, I swear. You just have to come back with me. Don’t leave me. Please.

He tried to say something, but, again, chose simply to nod. We stood in an awkward silence for several moments. There was no sign of relief in his eyes, while they wondered disquietedly into the distance, far away, through the top of the trees- dark pillars, bearing the reddening sky- and then at the ground, and back again, in direction of the camp. He was thinking, but I believed he was just meditating on what I had said. Maybe he doubted of how suddenly I had forgiven him and how quickly I had resolved to abandon my clan, just to fly into the unknown. I waited for a while, until any further delay became unbearable: I sighed to catch his attention and reached out to take his hand. It was sufficient to shake him from his reflections, and he turned his weary face to me.

\- All right, we will leave together, but I shall ask you just one favour, and I need you not to question it -

\- I’m listening- I answered, relieved. Anything to have him back, I thought.

\- If we want to abandon the clan, we have to do it tonight. I cannot be more definite, right now, there is no time, but I promise everything will be clearer, later. I have had…problems, lately, with Keeper. I think he suspects something is wrong, and he must not be the only one; I know for sure he intended to speak with Fernil about my recent behaviour. I need you to go at camp and call Fernil, pack those few things we may need and find me here within one hour. You think you can do it?

\- But…travelling by night…it is not safe.

\- We are strong. You are an excellent huntress, I have improved a lot and Fernil, well, you know, he’s a bad-ass. We can do it. Fernil will not say no, we were already planning it. We know a way, through the forest: it is safer than many others, and we might be bordering the Coastland within tomorrow. You know, I wouldn’t ask you to travel by night, if it wasn’t necessary.   

\- I don’t understand…you did not seem so much in a hurry, when we came here. Where you really planning to leave like that, before this evening? You were simply going away, without even telling me you weren’t coming back, anymore?

\- I told you not to question me. I swear, everything will be explained. Look, I cannot leave with you and Fernil and think none will notice us, or that we won’t meet anyone into the woods while we run. That passage we found is quiet, that’s true, but it takes a little while to reach it, we could be discovered. You don’t know where it is, and thus you should go with me or with him, and what if we called us, what if something went wrong? I’m scared, Innuin, I know what means running away.

Indulge me, do as I say, this time it’s me that ask please. We aren’t unarmed, we’re coming through it.

\- All right, then. I will go and find Fernil for you, but you…you have to swear me you will not escape, while I’m away.  I want to trust you, Alim, but should you leave me…I don’t know how much I could hate you. I would chase you to the end of the world and have you pay for your deeds. 

He attempted a faint smile.

\- You may even become the most powerful dreamer after Fen’harel, but your bad temper is clearly not going to leave your side. I swear, you won’t need to storm through Thedas in search of a felon that once used to be your friend. Now, hurry, go: you see, within an hour it will be completely dark and, with a bit of luck, we will travel unnoticed until the dawn.

Then, he waved me his hand, pointing at the path we had followed to reach the clearing, as he was gently pushing me away; I gave him a last, knowing glance of agreement and turned my back, heading to the camp as steady as I could. Once I was certain to be out of his sight, I quickened my pace and, before I could even realize it, I was running, cutting my way through the bushes, in a desperate rush which I myself ignored the reason for. The smell of damp bark, the rustling of leaves under my thundering steps; the way twigs, pebbles and roots felt under my bare feet and the cold breath of the forest in my lungs; the ancient, well known thrill of a dangerous freedom- it all stroke me, in an endless moment of pure life. Tears for too long concealed were now running freely along my chilled cheeks: I was, at the same time, so tired and yet so relieved, for I was not going to lose him. I had forgotten all my anger. I knew it would not have been easy; many things still laid, unrevealed, which I needed to know and which probably he needed to say. So great a burden, carried in solitude for such a long time, must have consumed his heart. He ought to share it, with me, free his poor, troubled soul from such a torment: I could help him, and I would. At once, deliverance seemed so at hand that I let out a beastly cry of relief- or was it triumph? I still cannot say.


	9. The trembling hare- Part Three

Fernil occupied a rather large tent, placed at the eastern corner of our camp, in a quiet spot, sheltered by cedar trees. A fresh, resinous scent pervaded his quarters and the balsam dripped in golden drops on the cloth he had arranged and sewn in wide squares of fabric, clasped at the top of wooden poles he had jabbed deep in the ground, long time ago. When the morning sun rose, shining like silver rain through branches, his tent sparkled of resin. It looked like a castle, or the lair of some extravagant, mighty sorcerer, and I liked sitting somewhere around there, listening to the sounds of Alim and him getting up, fancying how it might be like living in a manor, buried in the core of an enchanted forest.

In days gone by, Fernil used to be one of the most influential members of our clan. Although he seldom rose his voice, his infrequent yet plain words were held into certain consideration. In truth, it was nothing, compared to the authority they had acknowledged him for, long before his only son was born. Losing clan’s favour had been a gradual process, yet it did not fail having its results at the present, after he had struggled through the loss of a son and the general discontentment for his obdurate conduct about Alim. He had evidently accepted the mild hostility his own brethren harboured to him; the closer he got with Alim, the more he seemed content of his acquired affection, looking completely oblivious of the clan. He hunted alone, or accompanied by two or three youths, whose parents tolerated to leave them in his stride, probably reckoning more convenient that their boys learnt the ancient art of Andruil by someone so fairly skilled at it, no matter how extravagant and brittle he was. As for the rest, he bartered pelts and meat and exchanged few words with none but the Keeper, to whom he did not show a hint of warmth, but which he frequently questioned about Alim’s improvements. The only left person he bore to chat with, however occasionally and, for the most, in a brusque tone, was me.

Since the time I was but a toddler, fumbling on unsteady legs, he had always been particularly kind to me. He did not care much of me, just as any other male of the clan: children such as me were committed to women’s care. Still, when he met me, hanging around the camp and near his quarters, he greeted me, giving me some sweet or simply waving his hand at me, with a gentle smile on his lips. He was a fair man, then, rather tall and with a mahogany bride dangling on his shoulders. I liked him and, at the same time, his smile had something grim about it that discomforted me. I was not used to either obeying or feeling intimidated by adults, and I found the sensation he aroused in me quite disturbing, despite how nice he might play to me. I was not that wrong, as I had chance to discover some years later, when I resolved to steal some of his hunting tricks and thus started spying on him, whilst he chased. Once, I was sure he had not a hint I was stalking him. I had tricked him: I was foolishly commending me within myself for my wit and watched him flush a hare out, when an arrow shot through the shrubs I was hiding within. Just a few millimetres above my shoulders, my braid was pinned at the trunk I was leaning against.  He finished his job, taking all the time he needed, while I stood, frozen, my back flattened against the course bark, too shocked to disentangle my hair and fly away. Once he was done, he approached to retrieve his arrow. He pulled it out of the trunk: not a word escaped his lips and he did not even deigned to glance at me. He headed to camp, the hare preposterously dangling from his quiver, where he had secured it with a small lace. Her empty pupils watched me as nearly as terrified as I probably looked right then.

\- I don’t like cheaters. As for thieves, well, it never go too well for them, when I am around. Next time we’ll see, you will be at camp, with all the other guys, ready to learn and test how far you can go, playing fair, like anyone else. Otherwise, better I don’t catch you sneaking around me anymore, little hare.

After that, I was all too careful to steer clear of his tent, at least until Alim befriended me. I had recently learnt to cherish him, just as I did for the boy he claimed as his son, yet, I still felt intimidated by his presence, particularly now that he had grown older and darker. He could smile sadly and talk in a gentle, distant singsong and then, just a moment later, wrap himself in a gloomy silence, from which he emerged only to utter few, cold words of resentment. His fair, noble face had turned livid, covered in subtle wrinkles that crowned his grey eyes, like petals around a lilac. Those eyes I had often surprised wandering loosely, looking far away, as intent as he saw something yet to come and unknown but to him. His shining mahogany braid had become grey, as if moulded in silverite. According to Alim, he never undid it: in our culture, this represents an oath or a vow, binding the one who carries its sign. However, neither of us could fathom what the promise he so thoroughly maintained was about. Asking him directly would have gained us nothing more than some grumpy response, such as shooing us from his tent or shooting willingly loose arrows at our heels, while we ran away, half giggling and terrorized by his wrath. Yet, he could prove affectionate, though in a manner of his own, that is, in a harsh, clumsy way. He used to hitting my shoulder with his bow, when he saw me having my drills and wanted to correct my posture. I appreciated his advices- I knew how difficult it was, to him, and I treasured his words, acknowledging the valour of the one whom they came from. Yet, the grouchy tone he lavished them with annoyed me. Alim laughed at me, watching at the grimace with whom I welcomed his stepfather’s cares.

\- Trust me, he’s fond of you

\- Well, don’t say. I don’t want to know how would it be like if he didn’t!

Such was the man I was going to speak with- the one I had to persuade to hurry, gain his poor belongings and then follow me to the unknown. He might have be fond of me, as Alim said, but if he really knew the truth, if he really meant to leave with his son, how was he going to handle my intromission? Was he going to accept Alim had confessed to me the secret they shared with none else? Did he really want to go away, travel among perils, with no certainty to either survive or find shelter among our brethren in the North? Suddenly, doubts assaulted me. I feared I had done too many foolish things, all together. How could Fernil trust me? Who was I but a friend of his son, perhaps the only one he had, that was true, yet a stranger to him? And why, why on earth had I trusted Alim? What, if he had run away, leaving me to face Fernil alone and bear the responsibility of Alim’s flight? Deep in my heart, I knew Alim might have omitted to tell me something, again, and I was afraid to discover my feeling was right.

Trying to gather all the courage I was capable of, I sneaked along the camp’s borders, until his tent appeared; inside it, a pale light was on. I could guess his hawk-like profile projected against one of the walls: he leant over something: he must have been sewing some of his pelts. There was always great need of cloths and patches to fix rips and provide covers for aravels and tents, and Fernil, just as many other elders in our clan, knew how to needle even the toughest leather without the stitches came off at the first strain. He spent a good deal of his nights sewing and patching; he said it helped him relax and fall asleep. He meditated, chewed some herbs and sang softly in his nose- his voice was so sweet and deep that it was not rare Alim and I slipped into dreams by simply listening at him. After a careful approach, I called him with my quietest voice and gently scratched the tent’s cloth to draw his attention. His purple shadow turned to me and suddenly I sensed his eyes, piercing me through the fabric.

Then, I saw him getting up. His figure grew, as a mountain erupting from earth; his shadow stretched until one of the tent’s folds shifted and I saw nothing but a black spot, standing back light between me and the little candle Fernil lit every evening, when the sun was still a red half-moon on the verge of the forest. A mixed scent of elfroot, spice and leather filled my nostrils and made its way right to my guts: I remembered the countless other times it had surrounded me, making me feel safe and at ease, during the long vigils spent with Alim, when we spoke and dreamt of conquering the world, as glorified heroes against the Blight. It all seemed so irretrievably far. A sharp sting broke through my heart, but I had no time to waste: Fernil was staring at me, his pupils as grey as melted iron.

\- Where did you leave Alim?-  he asked, coldly. I should have remembered he did not appreciate us loitering after sun set.

\- He is…not here. But I know where he is. I…I need to speak. Please.

Fernil watched at me: his face had stiffened in a stone mask, as it always did, whenever anything provoked his wrath. Nonetheless, he stepped aside to let me pass; bending on my trembling legs, I made through the narrow passage his body has left.

A thick wolf pelt was hanging from a sort of little table Fernil himself had arranged with birch: I could see the rough leather needle, glittering under the flame nearby: as I moved into the tent, the needle twinkled at each time I stirred, like a falling star in the nocturnal sky. The pelt was almost dark, and it must have belonged to an old omega, for it was bald and coriaceous, unlike the rank fur of youths; it even lacked the sober stiffness that characterized a well-nourished alpha. It was rather odd to find something like that in a Dalish tent: even for a practiced hunter, a wolf could prove a hard antagonist, one our ranger would rather not to deal with. Besides, there was a degree of superstition about such beasts. They seldom tolerated that men massacred one of their kin: they were both clever and brave enough to raid our camp and kill our hallas in revenge. On this regard, an omega was no threat: it lacked a pack to avenge its death. Yet, I knew Fernil: he did not like killing wolves and bears. Too similar to men, he used to saying.

Alim’s wicker mat lied unfolded on the ground; Fernil usually rolled up its own and kept it in a sack, dangling from a rope he had suspended to one of the tent’s poles. When he went to bed, he unfolded it and laid in front of the entrance, the short, sturdy ironwood bow at his side, daggers at hands’ reach.

Several tiny cupboards, made of weaved reeds and wicker, at the way of the Dalish, were placed at the corners. Fernil had filled them with ropes, hooks, leather offcuts, cloths, canes and stems, dried meat and all that it took to create mild curative poultices, bombs and poisons. The latter proved quite useful to build traps or to protect the clan from predators, during the starkest winters, or whenever a famine bereft both beasts and men of their nourishment, making them merciless towards each other and their own kind, as well.

\- Explain yourself; I am waiting.

\- I come on Alim’s behalf. He is waiting for us, not far from here, near the passageway you discovered, the one that crosses the forest. He spoke me of it.  It is…complicated, and we must be quick. He asks you to prepare, gather your stuff and come with me. We are leaving tonight.

Fernil opened his mouth, yet uttered no sound. I suppose it took only a short time, but it felt like an eternity, to me.

\- I see.

Then, he started packing his stuff, sparing further words and avoiding my eyes. I could not say whether the man was troubled or not: his face betrayed no emotion, and he was probably very careful about it.

\- So, this is it? You trust me, just like this? No questions? No doubts?

\- I have no reason to doubt, and you said me to hurry.

\- But Alim…

He turned to face me.

\- I know my son. If he asks me to do so, this is a sufficient reason to me. Though, I understand you need answers; I suppose all will be clear, once it is over. For now, you’d better help me to gather all we need: it'll be a long way. I cannot work properly with you doin’ absolutely nothing right in the middle of my tent.

He handed me a cotton sack: it was dyed in a pale shade of blue, certainly obtained by woad, commonly known, among the Dalish, as Mythal’s breath. Feminine hands must have embroidered the subtle arabesque of flowers and fronds that adorned it: cedar stems, intertwined with red and white poppies, crowned a sheaf of elder. Above it, two interlaced primrose buds laid in a languid embrace. I had never seen anything like that: embroidering was common among Dalish women, yet the work, however clearly inspired to the floral motives usually connected to Sylaise’s cult, showed a personal taste a Dalish would hardly indulge to.

\- Here, this is something for you. Stuff in herbs, ropes and meat, and all you can grab. Take care of that bag: it belonged to your mother.

It was as if a wave of electricity had jolted through my skin, flowing through my arm and finding its way to my guts. I gawped at the bag and then at Fernil, I could not say how many times. He muttered something about how dumb of him had been giving me the bag right now that I was already so dazed. His words must have shamed, somehow, for I remember I gather my strengths and tried to be as useful as I could. Picking all the little things I had grown so familiar with, after so many days spent rather in their tent than in mine; striving to maintain my focus on what might prove of use, conscious, as I was, that the least distraction could make the difference between life and death; that was enough to make me regain some lucidity. It would have helped me reconsider the situation and lead a more effective scrutiny of what had happened, so far. There was something terribly strange about how quickly Alim had confessed his secret and planned a flight with us. By the quiet, studied moves Fernil was making, by the calm demeanour with whom he inspected our modest equipment, as he had done it countless time before, I guessed Alim had not lied about the plan they had been devising for days, maybe for months. But why, then? Many Dalish abandoned their clans, every day, with no need to leave by night, like thieves. I reflected upon what Alim had said about me: what could be wrong, if the Keeper had a hint I was developing any magical attitude? Might all this affair of Dreamers and curses be just an excuse for something else he did not want to reveal? Was Fernil in the dark as I was, or should I have suspected duplicity from him, as well? The more I reflected, whilst collecting the richly scented elfroots and the barren deadroots, along with twisted ropes and rusted gears, the less I saw sense in what had been said and done.  How could I have reacted like a mad, as if emotions had broken a bulwark I ignored to harbour in my heart, tearing off any resistance my usually cold rationality opposed to their fury? It was not the first time I had to recognize my ignorance, yet I had never been so afraid of myself. I was so eager to know what lied outside, so quick to ask, but my true self was unknown to me, shrouded into darkness, as into a winter night, with no snow to reflect even the fainter pulse from the stars. Because of this blindness towards my own feelings, I was now under the lead of Alim’s will and no longer free, pulled through unknown paths, as a blinkered horse guided by his master. And I had other masters, too: my fears, my doubts, my passions, which had prevented me from seeing the contradictions in Alim’s words.

In the meantime, Fernil was done. He throw a final glance at our small luggage, checking that all was at the right place. He required to see my bag and gave it back after a quick look of recognition. Hadn’t I known him so well, I could have felt intimidated by the severity whit whom he eyed at me, but I could fathom that the light wrinkle, forming at the corner of his mouth, meant approval. He probably understood how I felt, and this spread an unexpected warmth in my heart. Maybe I was not alone; maybe things were really going to be better and I had been a fool to suspect of Alim’s good faith

-Now, go. I’m coming along after a while.

He nodded at me, inviting me to take my leave and precede him. I wavered, but then went out of his tent, forcing myself not to turn back. He needed his time to say goodbye, too. To me, it was different: I had my bow and my daggers, which were all that mattered right then, and I was not parting from anything I really cared for. The only thing I really cherished more than my weapons was now over my shoulder: it would have been its place for many years, after that night. I felt grateful to Fernil for giving it to me: somehow, it must have meant something to him, too. I resolved to ask him about it, as soon as it was over: now, all I had to do was focusing on the task at hand.

I could hear the camp preparing for the night: noises that reached our corner sounded softened and muffled, as if a thick veil screened Fernil and me from the rest of the clan. There was no need to turn and stare- I already knew it: beyond those shrubs, brushed by a gentle wind that made them sing ancient lullabies of whispers, my brethren were busy with lighting a fire, while children wearily gathered in front of the aravels, tired to the point they lacked any strength to fight with each other.  The elders were probably sitting at the entrance of their tents or on the ladders leading into their aravels. There they sang, weaved and sewed, chewing their herbs, speechifying about the rains yet to come or making a fuss about how nervous hallas were that fall. They disputed about who had distinguished himself during recent shoots, and thus fancied to pair him, or her, with one of their grandsons. I could hear their trembling voices melting with the clumsy sobs of hallas and intermitted with some childish yell. Occasionally, a young man started a song to draw the attention of girls. This was their life: an eternal wake on the verge of history, from where they awaited the promised homeland, which they clearly expected fate to lavish on them, while they did no more but sitting, singing and keeping memories of ancient tales. I had no clue of how life went, out of the well-protected microcosm each clan staged for itself, but I knew this was not the way thing should have gone. Yet, it is true, that was my people: such sweet tunes they sang, and I never realized it! The voices, the crackle of newly arisen fire, awakening among the chants of ambers, the smells of the camp: I could have loved this all, if things had been different, if I had been different. Perchance, I would not have survived the journey to the North, I said to myself, but if I was to reach the Free Marches alive and thus join the Lavellans, I swore everything would change. I was going to live a fresh new life, with a fresh new heart, and I was never to abandon my people again, never to turn my back on them, never to have to wait for that moment to realize what I was missing. I clasped the fabric of my sack and found some solace in tracing its delicate patterns with my fingertips. Fernil was coming, I could sense his prudent step approaching, a faint lingering of the left leg, which he had badly injured once, nearby the Dire. He had never recovered completely, although he did not seem to mind the pain, as long he was at hunt. I knew nights were uneasy for him: the thigh was often sore, and that was the reason he always smelled of crystal grace, an effectual painkiller, though quite dangerous, if taken in too great amounts.

He made no sound and he did not turn to check what he was leaving: we carefully sneaked into the shrubs, letting back the halo of light camp spread through the greenery. The sky was a deep shade of purple: clouds still tarried at the corners of the horizon, blood-like red, but the wilds already wore the pitch of night. The moon was at her quarter, yet not high enough on the verge of the eastern plains to grace us with her pale beams. I felt comforted by knowing the rest of the night would not have been so dark, provided trees let pass enough light to guide our steps out of dangers. We walked quietly and in silence, although we knew we were way too near to camp to mind any threat from the woodlands, yet. It was also unlikely we could meet anyone: at that time, every member of the clan was back home to help preparing for dinner and arranging the watch through the darkest hours. The clearing was evidently further than I realized; reaching it at a modest pace would have required a good while, yet we did not feel like running, either for it did not seem prudent and because we had to spare our energies in case of forced marches. I took my time to spy Fernil’s face: he looked absorbed, I could not fathom whether in in his thoughts or in avoiding rustling twigs. After a while, I remembered I had not been eating since that morning: hunger claimed all my attention, for I could not run the risk of attracting wolves or, worst, bears, with the smell of my dried meat. I would have picked some roots I had noticed growing at the borders of the clearing: they did not taste great, but I could not undertake such a journey with an empty belly. Eventually, we came in sight of the place.

\- Here it is- I sighed, half in relief: I could not see Alim, since some shrubs still divided us from the spot, blocking a clear view of what lied ahead.

\- Follow me, I’m going first- Fernil commanded. I backed and he shifted ahead of me and approached the clearing as he expected to find a wild beast, rather than his son. His hands were steady on the daggers he wore at his belt. As the vegetation unclosed at our passage, I distinguished a familiar shape from behind Fernil’s shoulders. Alim was still sitting over a boulder, shrouded in the darkness.

\- Father?-

\- It’s me, son. Here we are-

The figure rose up but it did not stepped closer. I wished I could reach him, but Fernil stood between us, shielding me with his body. I did not understand why: I tried to move, but Fernil’s body resisted my attempt and he widened his arms, ready to block me as soon as I stirred at either his sides.

\- You know what to do- I heard Alim say. His voice sounded sad and distant at the same time. I felt my heart burning with sudden despair.

Fernil nodded in response: “As you do, as well”, he added.

Then, Alim gestured to Fernil; he slid aside, letting me face his son.

\- Alim, what does this mean? -

\- I hope you will forgive this, with time. I am so sorry- he murmured. I could not look in his eyes: a deep darkness hid him, something stranger to the night, which no torch could lit. Before I retorted, he lifted his hands and I felt a burst of weakness was coming upon me. His shadow stretched over me, devouring my body in a sick mist. Here ends any memory left of that night: the last thing I saw was the figure of Alim, fading into the sky, where a crown of stars pulsed remotely, slower, further, fainter, as my weakening heartbeat sank into an ocean of oblivion.


	10. The journey begins

_Green as a vein of veridium, springing lively from the earth. Green as meadows, wet after a raging monsoon. Green as the reflection of water on the walls of a cave, hanging with maidenhair, shining with moss. Green as poisonous plants, as venom on the tip of a fast, black arrow shot, at the centre of the heart. The place was dire; the air was trembling; the ground vibrated with unreadable noises. I got up. My limbs felt exhausted. My eyes could not see. They perceived nothing but green, surrounding me by each side. I could smell and hear; my senses were fully awaken. Their sharpness was excruciating, especially compared to my apparent blindness. Something must have happened; maybe I had hit my head and needed some time to recover. I tried to sit, a painful sense of nausea washing all over my body. My eyes were slowly reacquiring their faculty but the only thing I could see was again that sickly brilliant shade of green that obscured any other sight, as mist upon mires. There were sounds floating all around me, yet they seemed quite remote: something was moving somewhere far and above me, judging by how the ground tremored at each noise, as if I were lying on the slope of a volcano. I could distinctly hear every sound, and still apparently lacked any faculty to conceive what provoked them. So familiar they were, yet not a word came to my memory to describe them, and I wavered, for a long while, just desperately wondering, in search of something I missed- something with no name, too, which I used to know.  In the meantime, my eyes had eventually readjusted to the jade-like light: they seemed to have learnt how to match the left senses in keenness. They could now explore the place: a stark clearing, shaped in a circle and lost in a steppe-like plain that, I reckoned, must have widened for many miles around. The horizon lied at the level of my sight, arching in a perfectly rounded edge; no hollows digging the ground, no trace of elevations were evident from that spot. As I turned, a high portal made of exquisite carvings faced me, but what lied beyond, that I could not see. The threshold was sided by two massive statues: I did not recognize what their slender frames represented. A bright one, a dark one, mirroring each other- that was all I could grasp. I saw no sign left of Alim, and Fernil was not there, either. Perhaps they had trespassed the door that seemed to pierce the looming sky with its sharp crest. I had no place where to go. Everything was strange and, yet, familiar. I knew I had to cross that door. Everything would have been clearer, then. I moved along and followed the path. The green mist still clouding my view, as a watery veil, faded, and I could distinguish, with an excellent degree of definition, that same passageway through the forest I walked to reach camp. I did not want to go back there, but the noises were closer and I was driven to join their source: after all, whatever direction I could choose, there was nothing left for me, in either place. I wended. Something had gone wrong about our flight, I remembered. Could it be Alim and Fernil had abandoned me, alone in the woods, an easy prey to the beasts infesting the night, with the only purpose of leaving without me? Had it been but a prank to fool me? Perhaps, they were now back at their tent, everything unchanged, as it had always been. I approached. A smell. Heat. Smoke. Something burning. The noises were now distinguishable. The growl of fire infuriating in its dance over timber and flesh. The light of a blaze, grey by ashes, golden by flames. The rabid flare of tents, aravels, altars torched and crashing to the ground, wrapped by hissing snakes of fire. I knew it was a crazy thing to do but I ran to the edge of camp, unable even to shout: there was absolutely nothing I could do, no way to prevent what was to come. For a while, I hoped my clan had left before the worst happened: I saw no trace of them and heard no voice. I narrowed my eyes and tried to make my way as near as I could, shielding my mouth with a hand and forcing myself to stand the suffocating fog that emanated by the burnt spoils of what once used to be elders’ aravels. There I saw them: someone was still alive, shaking into the monstrous pyre, unable to find relief, in a vain struggle to escape his agony. Some managed to crawl out of the fire, only to desiccate under my sight. I could now hear their cries, melted into the crackles and whispers of erupting ashes. Horror came upon me, immobilizing my limbs until I realized my lungs were burning, the approaching fire devouring all the air into them. I stepped back, but I fell and instead tried to drag myself on my elbows. The ground was rough, boiling, covered with pebbles and splinters from intermitted flares; it brushed my skin, injuring it to blood, but any reason had abandoned me and I kept rushing back, crazily in terror, dumb as a skittish colt._

_It was then that I caught someone else standing a few steps away from where I was, contemplating that devastation with no apparent emotion. I did not recognize him at once but, when I had set enough distance between fire and me, I turned to observe him. “Mythal, no…” I breathed. His braid lied, unleashed, reddening with flames; flames ran along his arms, as well, pouring from his hands like burning rain, and all his body seemed to flourish out of a golden cloak of fire._

_\- You!-  I wished I could shout it loud, oh so loud, that my cry pierced the sky- a blood-tainted dome, against whom the darkness of the night contended with the unbearable radiance of death- and then fell back, slow and just, and sacredly vengeful, like the holy arrows of the Dread Archer. If there be any god left in this world, even the most terrific and hideous one, let Him come now, let Him be terrible and right, merciless against the merciless, Lord of the Destroyers, Herald of punishment. But my rage strangled me: the sound that escaped my lips was no more than the whimper of a beast, wounded, betrayed by its own kind._

_Still, it was enough to drive his attention: he turned to watch me and I saw what his eyes had become. “You don’t know, what a relief”, I heard hissing in my ears. Then, Alim stepped in and disappeared within the sparks._

 

I woke up. Again and, now, for real- although, in time, I have learnt to consider both the Fade and this world equally real. It was like shifting back to an unfitting dress: this is how a spirit regain its physical form and, no matter how long you have been used to it, it will result all the same disturbing. We had camped in what resembled a hollow, circled by a thick wall of trees and leading to the entrance of a huge cave, carved in a grassy mound. The spot was sheltered from anyone’s view and the close mouth of the cavern would have amplified whatever sound came from the surrounding woodlands. I could hear right then little birds twitting, and a feeble rustle of some small creature drifting through the brushwood. Given we stood leeward, no threat approaching within a good distance could have found us unprepared. I turned my dizzy eyes to meet Fernil’s: he sat beside the pallet he had arranged me with gathered weeds, and was looking wistly at me. As soon as his stare met mine, he turned it down with an obstinate gesture. He clearly expected me to question him, and thus tried to conceal his discomfort, probably even his apprehension, and another feeling, too, that I could not place. He was going to let me down, whatever I asked. I lowered my eyelids to restrain tears of rage and despair. Alim was no longer with me; he had abandoned us. The golden days of joy, the blossoming freedom of wandering a brand new world, the wonder of being together, tasting all that life could offer, despite how hard a challenge growing up could be- all was gone forever, shattered into thousand shards that pierced my heart and made my tears smell of blood. All that was left to me was this blunt man, bent by sorrows, obdurately keeping his silence, whilst all I longed for was a bit of warmth, some words of solace, to reassure me my pain was not in vain. I forced myself into focus, swallowing back the thick, salt taste of my own disillusion. I concentrated on what was around me, striving to perceive rather than seeing, keeping my eyes tight shut and inhaling deeply. My mother’s bag had been carefully placed under my head as a pillow, to ease my rest on the rough ground. My knees felt sore: I realized scorches covered both them and my palms, as if I had fallen on them and then dragged along a coarse ground, like sand or pebbles. I touched my legs: a poultice had been applied and I could sense its oily vehicle. Bringing my hand to the nose, I smelled elfroot and nug-bread, a kind of root implied to disinfect superficial wounds. Fernil must have taken my daggers, perhaps in fear I might hurt myself while laying unconscious. I tentatively stirred my palms to inspect the small area around my bed, careful not to hurt myself, and here there was- my bow. I grabbed its haft, muffling a little whimper of pain and running my fingertips on its polished shape, where my nails had dug dents that eased my hold. It fitted me; it was one with me.

\- My loyal friend- I called it, in a whisper. _You should give it a name; every weapon worth of some respect has one,_ Alim had said to me, once. I had not chosen how to call it, still. I drove it into my arms and turned to embrace its shape, resting on a flank and fighting back tears. I curled around it, twisting my legs with its cord, which, tingled by my touch, propagated a faint vibration along the bow’s elastic length. It felt like listening to a familiar, cherished voice, humming sweetly to sooth my affliction: it helped me distracting.

Archery is an ancient art, one few others are close to Dalish hearts the like. Those who attain a sublime correspondence between spirit and bow are called Bor’assan’len, a title only few are worth to bear and, perhaps, the highest honour a hunter may aspire to. However talented an archer might be, his firm hand and his sharp eye will not make of him a Bor’assan’len. He must have practiced the way of the arrow, bending to the nature of his bow, up to become straight yet humble, strong yet pliant, detached no less than focused and fatal, but never deaf to mercy. He becomes one with his arrow and spoils himself of both his name and his status, giving up his worldly affections: after a year, spent wondering into the forest, provided he has survived, he strives back to his clan. He receives a new name; his brethren proclaim him brother to the Keeper, whose bloodline he thus becomes the sole, righteous preserver. He betroths the clan’s most beautiful girl: every tribe, within the neighbouring regions, will regard their offspring as noblest among Dalish. Should one of their children manifest any magical inclination, he (or she) will have a natural claim on the title of Keeper. Still, before undertaking his holy path, the Bor’assan’len used to be a man, just as many others in his clan; he is likely to have had children of his own, to whom he is neither a father nor a distant relative, now. Those children we call orphans, and this is what they learn to hold themselves like; yet, the hardship of their bereavement is fairly paid, for it will give them great honour and grant them influential roles within the ranks of rangers, artisans, mages or even sulahnin, the bards to our lore. The path to become a Bor’assan’len, however, was, at my days, almost forgotten, just as it happened to Somniari; those willing to seek the mysteries of the spirit had grown rare, dispersed by superstition, forgetful to any mystical drive our legacy once possessed. I wondered then, for the first time, whether our nature had irretrievably weakened, despite every claim we made of its endurance. I had never understood what Vir Assan implied, nor which manner of insanity might drive a man to cloister, exposed to the thousand perils of the woodlands, ready to abandon his family, oblivious of himself and inebriated with ineffable pleasures. Yet, right then, whilst I rest, embracing my bow, an inner fire ignited within my breast, which I had never experienced the like before. Suddenly, the ardent lunacy of those hermits of old did not look so vain. I had to endure: if my vision did not fail me and I had been spared, let it be to rise instead of roving in affliction. A tale came then to my mind, one Fernil told us once, in a misty night, in a time that seems now as far as another life. It spoke of a girl called Telana. Her name was akin to a word of the tongue of Elvhenan, _telanadas_. “Nothing is inevitable”: this is its meaning. Whenever I repeated it within myself it gave me hope. I suppose it has been then that I resolved to give my bow a name, to remember me never to give up, not even when my heart ached for a friend forever lost. _Telanadas_ , I whispered. It was time to get up. I turned to Fernil, a calm look on my face. We stared at each other. Many things were said in that silence; trees hushed and wind stood still.

Then, I rose on my feet and peeked around in recognition. As far as I could fathom, we were quite away from the clan: the thickets at the edges of the hollow looked unlike those that covered the southern regions, at the border of the Korkari mire. It was impossible to say how much we had parted from Southron woodlands; however, I guessed, we were presumably two days west and northward from the Dire. It occurred me Fernil must have carried me, as he once had done with Alim. He had born my dead weight on his no longer young and sturdy shoulders, occasionally hauling me by an improvised tow; an onerous labour no less, for a man with an injured leg and a heavy burden impending on his soul. Gods knew how many things I wished to ask; still, it was not the time, not yet. Driving back any thought, I started gathering my stuff and only once I had stuck it in my sack I allowed myself to sit and question Fernil about that place and what we were going to do, next.

\- So far as we went, there’s a good deal of miles between camp and us. That’s fine, but it’s still a long way to the Marches: we have to cross the wilds, as long as we can, which has its benefits, yes, but we must mind wild beasts, and bears above all: the more you head to North, the easier you’ll meet them, particularly at this time of the season. Following the main roads is out of question: Templars are always distrustful of a Dalish out of his clan and I bet being two won’t easy us a bit. Not to mention robbers and Tevinter’s slave traders. A skilled hunter and a young, nice girl: guess they would kill, to grant themselves such a nice catch! No, the stealthier, the better. I’d rather provide meal to a wolf than a gardener to a magister, that’s for sure.

-What are we meant to do, once we have reached the coast? How will we cross the Ocean?

\- This is nothing of our concern, at least not right now. First things first. What we really must focus on, for today, is gathering some game, eat enough to sustain ourselves and resume our journey as soon as possible, but just until sun has set; night is too dangerous, without a proper campfire. We will rest until dawn and then march again, as long as there’s light, and lay during the darkest hours in a decently safe spot. Setting night watch too, of course. We start from today.  And, given you look perfectly restored, while I have been awake for almost three days, I suggest to brace yourself for a very long night: I’ll need a good sleep.

These were the only words I was able to spill from him until the end of that day. We laboured to catch a pair of squirrels, then skinned them and fastened their pelts at the bottom of our sacks, not without filling the inside with enough straw to dry them: wind and sun were going to do the rest, and, once we reached the coastlands, they will have been ready to be traded or sold. We worked in silence, coordinating our moves: he showed me how he placed his traps and nodded in approval when I repeated his gestures to practice my skills. Tricks of that kind were not my thing: I was quick at shooting and I liked to catch my prey when running, pursuing it, studying his moves and waiting for the best strike. However, my rough and muscular style did not seem to impress him, though I knew for sure he had praised my abilities with Alim, and he scolded me a couple of times, as I was a silly girl, ignorant of such matters. Then, after rubbing away any trace of our passage, we left and marched westward, at steady pace. We went across the scented dales that lie between South Reach and Lothering district, where the forests, dwelling upon the hills, kept us unseen and allowed us to avoid the main road that, furcating from Logerswold’s crossway, cut the Bannorn plains, like a dragon of dust. Thereto we headed, no matter how hazardous it might have seemed. As long as we proceeded towards Southreach, we kept the susurrating valleys of the Brecilian Forest at our right, steering clear of them with all our cares. We could hear their wicked murmurs and spy their pretended sleep, a snare many unaware passengers had ran into, only to die either entangled in verdant webs or swallowed by poisonous bogs. We had heard of wretchedcreatures infesting those lands; moreover, the Dalish of those regions were particularly unfriendly, even to their kin. No help was to be expected from their Keeper, and thus there was no way to labour through that labyrinth. Elves were believed to be the only ones to survive the spells of the Forest, yet we could not afford to check whether those legends had root in reality. We had no choice, but venturing through the unsheltered plains stretching between Drakon and Dane. Until then, though, hills and mountains shielded us up to the fertile fan of fields nurtured by Drakon, Reach, and all the other, smaller effluents that, flowing out of Lake Calenhad, gently girdled it with brooks and mild falls. That was a region of farms, blessed by crystalline waters; an advantage, to whom the arling of Southreach added all the benefits that a wise exertion of power may accord. Several among the Dalish had moved from Southron Hills to Ostagar and Lothering, yet many more had come back, deploring they had found but a life of misery; instead, odds had been kinder to those who dared to venture further, to the neighbouring Reach. They had applied as servants in countryside farms, attending to the care of druffalos and steeds: such were fitting tasks for nomads, ignorant as they were of husbandry of any sort. Here they lived, amidst modest peasants, under the well-measured supervision of the local Arling, which, at the time, restrained with studied compliance the increasing pressure of Templars, limiting the excessive power of Lothering clerks, while military hierarchies of stance at Ostagar witnessed the fight with short-sighted indifference. Southreach was probably one of the few places where elves might struggle only with human superstition, safe from persecutions and spared by Chantry clearings. Such was the name given to forced conversions Alienage elves underwent, from time to time, for the sake of vanquishing the taint of apostasy, a plague whom the Andrastian Church seemed much more concerned about than the Blight itself.

As long as we travelled Lothering’s territories, however, it was wiser to consider ourselves under a constant threat: corroborated by certain claims of independence Lothering had recently advanced to the neighbouring Reach, which they took clearly great interest in supporting, Templars contended with the Arle the effective control on the area, outmatching him as for organization no less than determination. They seldom lost a chance to interfere with arling’s guardsmen and traders, annoying whoever crossed the land and finding a preposterous amount of excuses to keep them under arrest. Such pitiable wrestle was to be sunk in blood by hand of the Darkspawn, only four years later; yet, at that time, unaware as they were of the impending slaughter, neither the arrogant chieftains of the Order nor their opponents seemed too concerned about anything else but their struggle for primacy. We had no choice, apart from cutting our way in between and hoping that, once we had entered the riverside districts, our worries might lessen, allowing to proceed, if not light-hearted, at least undisturbed. This, as least, was my opinion: Fernil, instead, was of a completely different advice. He had strenuously turned down any chance to march at a slowed pace, adamant as he was that we had to rush through the fields and cross the Reach’s river in haste, avoiding even the slightest contact with shemlen or elves of any sort. It would have been hard to comprehend such obstinacy, had I not seen the reasons behind it. The voice of a clan burnt to the ground was odd enough to forerun us, making everyone suspicious of striders eager to leave the forests behind.

Several dreams had followed that first, prolonged blindness, lasted three days, during which my body had left the Southron hills on Fernil’s shoulders. Journeying let us but few hours to sleep, yet, every night, my soul sank into the Fade, wandering in loneliness until I reached every time the same portal. Thence I was driven to camp, where spirits re-enacted the used scene, again and again, leaving me to witness powerlessly the end of my clan. Each time the narrow, soaring door opened for me once more, I grew accustomed to the green lights of the ethereal realm: I could barely perceive the difference between my natural sight and that of my inner eyes, now. I was able to realize I was dreaming and my senses were slowly arranging to work into the Fade, but I still had no memory of my physical self, lying on a pallet, curled on the bare ground: fitting back in it was a torture every time I woke up. I grow confident with the view of the portal, the path across it, and the effectual imitation spirits provided of the forest around camp. I could feel how excruciatingly heat radiated from the core of the blaze; blood ran desperately in my neck’s arteries, whilst I approached the fire, forcing myself to remember where I was and resisting the urge to fly at the frighteningly real sensation of flames scorching my skin. I contemplated the bodies, the way they writhed and how flesh faded, letting no remnant of what once used to be a man. With time, I just sat on the edge, watching: there was nothing else I could do. I studied how they died. It used to be my clan, the same that had refused and neglected both my feelings and me, and now it was lost, like the ashes floating in the livid dawn I had waited for, forcing myself to tarry in the Kingdom of the Wolf, despite my body was reclaiming me out of my dreams. Countless times I tried to reach Alim, hoping his shadow would have given me an explanation. I longed to speak with him, once more; but he always stepped into his liquid grave of gold just a while before I could even touch his torched limbs, a hem of his vest or just a lock of his hair. I knew what I saw had happened for real, while the night offered her back to the desperate rash of Fernil, bereft once again of his beloved ones and burdened with a responsibility on me, the only girl left of his clan. Probably, he had pledged to Alim he would have protected me or, perchance, an unspoken oath bound him to my mother and her sister. Was this the reason for whom he had never undone his braid? I did not dare to ask. At the beginning, I had wished the time had come I obtained the answers still denied. Yet, the more I travelled with Fernil, the fainter any chance appeared he could ever share with me such rueful secrets. We marched side by side, we hunted together, in almost perfect synchronicity; our abilities in hiding matched each other, as if we acted by one thought. Yet, apart for this, we spoke only when necessary, exchanging few words, in no case related to what had happened the night of our leave. I spied on him, when I was my turn to rest and he watched, sitting near the subsidingambers of a small fire we warmed us with, during the darkest hours the incoming winter made, every day, longer and colder. He used that modest light to sew, every night, the same black coat, made of a wolf pelt, or arranged what traps he had not had time to prepare during the day. Sometimes, he sang, almost in a whisper: it was an old tune about Dirthamen and Falon’Din, one with whom hunters hailed their lost companions. He looked so thoroughly absorbed in his melancholy I did not dare to disturb him. Yet, of one thing I was certain: I had to learn more, about my past and myself, and it had to be done before we reached the Lavellans, where new lies could be spoken, bereaving me of what I needed to know, ever after. Nothing assured me of how they would cope with me knocking at their door. Even provided they welcomed us, moreover, the truth about my family might have been precluded to me; after all, I was a stranger to them. I had no consistency, but a heart filled with hope, a hope that, on the other hand, was, right then, vital to both of us. Any decent commander knows that, when up to a fight, despair must be banished: in no circumstance he will allow his soldiers to despond, forbidding them to see how close they come to the undoing, for this is a burden only a leader can bear, as I myself have tested, in the days of the Breach. Had we failed with Lavellans, few chances would have remained for us to survive. I had seen some elves, while we quietly passed through farms along the Reach’s side, verdant with lush fields of crops, flower-scented and buzzing with the last bees of the season. They bent on what was left of the summer harvest; some tilled the ground, bracing it to forthcoming frosts. They looked so strange, in shemlen-like dresses, their skin scorched by sun, not a smile on their small, pointed faces. I had even seen some farmers kicking a pair of them down to earth and beating one, among the general hilarity of the peasants nearby. This is the least an elf has to face, when he lives unarmed among humans, and it is not even by far comparable to the worst things that could happen. I knew the elf I saw was to get up, once his tormenters had left, turning his quiet prayers to one of our silent gods. He would have thanked them he had come up with just a couple of blows in his ribs and a bit of mud on his mouth. I could not imagine myself in any other place, but amidst other Dalish, like me; I would not have permitted anyone to treat Fernil or me the way those elves had been treated in that farm. Which, in a world ruled by shemlen, under the dumb look of the Chantry, ready to excuse any abuse whenever perpetrated by those who aligned with the right side, would have meant the death of me- the death of both of us.

At the time, the natural drive to survival and the restrains our world imposed on us were undoubtedly more pressing than anything else was; yet, I had my path to walk through. I had been a fool, hoping to have Alim at my side. Provided things had gone differently, mine was a journey to undertake on my own: none else could do it and it was none’s task, only mine. Whether be Lavellans my fresh new start or not, truth could not dwell solely on what they would have been inclined to share with me. I had to discover it myself and there was but one way, one path, one place where answers might hide. No matter how lost within shadows and melted with illusions, yet they laid open to anyone worth to claim them. Which, to me, was more than enough to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think adding a little note was necessary, since I am now writing the forthcoming chapters. I have not read the novels, yet, though I am intentioned to do so; it means that, although I am trying to study the lore to avoid an excessive divergence from canon, my story will differ from Gaider's one at certain points. For this I apologize; should anyone find any remarkable mistake, please do feel free to correct and I will try my best to readjust my work. See you soon with the incoming updates ^^


	11. Across the Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wished to thank again my boyfriend, who first has given me advice about arrow-shooting and armour penetration, and his friend Ivan, to whom I have asked for further clarification about the same subject. I have also found of great use this nice blog by Benjamin Rose; I share its link in case you were to deal with arrow damage and gears endurance: http://www.benjaminrose.com/post/can-arrows-penetrate-medieval-armor/ This chapter has required a fair amount of documentation and a lot to be figured out. I hope you may like it ^^ Next update will come soon, I got it in store and I have just to check for editing it at the best of my abilities.

We gained the southern bank of the Reach before half of Harvestmere was spent. Rains' season had yet to begin, a detail that had probably partaken in Fernil' s obsessive rush. All that haste I had accounted for as an act of excessive prudence looked now more like a studied design, made to prevent any eventuality we were caught unprepared by earlier monsoons.

And indeed, autumn pounced mercilessly on the fat, yellow fields of Ferelden. Those same, green meadows, that the beams of a warm and seldom rainy summer had weaved in a golden robe, glittering under the wet breath of the winds that perspired through wilds all around, became a dim mire, as grey as the leaden sky. Through days, fields imbibed the unquenchable rage of the downpours, whilst torrents, falls and rivers, only a month ago so limpid and untroubled, turned into howling cataracts of mud.After a month of showers had savaged the land, yet, the boggy Bannorn dwelt under a silver-blue sky, now washed away of all its impending clouds. Earth and welkin both stilled, quiet, exhausted, perhaps, as lovers after many hours of furious exertion, while winds came and wiped away what cloud still tarried, what pool was left that still mirrored the azure. Peasants braced to drain the ground and went on with their onerous work, overturning mould clumps, patiently fixing the bulwarks the Reach and its brethren had trampled in their tempestuous ride. Then, slow, pensive, winter fell; a noble, old god, dressed in white robes, hushedly treadingat a measured pace- such was the unforgiving, glorious winter of Ferleden. The smell of shrubs, boxwood and oat grass- what strangers, unused to it, lamented as a wet-dog stink- faded in a cold scent of nothingness, floating above frozen lands. Snow was a hard chaser to have onyour heels.

I was grateful to travel at Fernil's side: in my inexperience, and without such a valiant companionship to count on, I would have probably underestimated the threats Harvestmire begot. No wonder, though, that I had not foreseen the danger approaching; little was my knowledge of the road, and limited to what I had experienced. I had never thrust myself beyond the lands that surrounded our camp. Since I was born, in fact, we moved our Aravels just few times, shifting nowhere else but across Southron Hills' district. Only on occasions we coasted the Korcari Wilds, prudently stirring away from Chasind trails, a web of intertwined tracks whose pattern aimed to the core of the wooded mires around Ostagar. There, our elders whispered, half in awe and in terror, a wicked witch had established her dwelling, acting as the land wasa property of her own, devouring every man on whom she got her hands and stealing children from their cradles. Given how things were to go, many years later, I suppose it would be only fair to report thatno child went lost, during any of the nonetheless rare times we dangerously loitered at the edge of the witch's territories; and I say it not without a certain irony.

I knew that a long way parted us from Amaranthine Ocean; Fernil had shortly mentioned it to me, one of those rareo ccasions he felt amenable to lavish anything else than recommendations and orders. That did not come unexpected; I see that my memoir has given him an almost unflattering portrait, so far, as if he was not able but to shout dispositions, and then spend what spare time was left in grim silence. I wish to make clear that, however, at that time, it did not suit my expectations and needs, and notwithstanding he did behave in a gruff manner, such frugality about details was only natural amidst the elders. Fernil had been training kids for so many years that he could not easily get rid of the acquired habit to have someone doing as he commanded; still, in doing so, he was actually bending me to the discipline a ranger needed and every youth lacked.How much right he might be, despite all his flaws, was something I had yet to realize, at the time we came to crossing the river. There I saw that his reserve had not been completely out of reason.

Be as it were, according to his previous plans, we were to cross the Bannorn, which I already knew, aim Northward to the coast and then sail for Amaranthine. Few days past we had overgone Southern Reach farms and their elven settlers, he explained to me that, for unnoticed we had gone so far, even in a land crowded with Templars and Dalish detractors, once crossed the river we would not have found the same facilities our hills and woodlands had favoured us with. The Bannorn was a rich, yet unstable region; many contended, to the neighbouring thanes, a larger jurisdiction over it and, though the lack of an established power and the density of pretenders stifled Chantry's cohesion, weakening the Templars and shattering the nation into myriads of vain feuds, other threats impended, somehow even more pressing than what we had escaped leaving the South. I had never wondered about the way Fernil attained his apparently vast knowledge in fereldan politic matters. To me, it was possible that he had been in touch with those few of the People which travelled the clans, bringing news from outside, particularly about Dalish purges and what human conflict may prove of some consequence for the otherwise secluded elvish communities. Although our clan had very poor contacts with non-Dalish people, Fernil had sometimes traded with merchants, but to meet them he had to travel to the outskirts of Lothering, since, for willing they might have been to acquire some good pelt, no matter from whom it came, salesman nonetheless feared approaching too many Dalish altogether, convinced as they were we would have killed them or, worse, skinned them alive and then hooked their corpses to a tree, to serve as a reminder to the Andrastians. Perhaps it had been then that he had learnt so much about the shemlen, yes. And yet, this explanation sounded each day less convincing: I had started noticing oddities in Fernil's behaviour, and the events at the Reach did not but reinforce my curiosity. The day we arrived at the River, it was clear that Fernil had a fairly inexplicable knowledge of the place. The odd zigzag he had forced on me, as long as we were crossing the farms, looked now a work of perfectly calibration. After a few hours of uncomfortable march into a wide sweep of shrubs that scratched our knees and slowered our pace with brambles and snags, the undergrowth tuned lazily into short, stark bushes, intermitted with increasingly rank tufts of reeds.The ground was growing bare, if not for sedge and a thick, greasy grass, as it usually grows on wet soils. The hush whistle of wind shifting through vegetation had deceived my unfocused ears: what I heard was, indeed, the singsong of waters, flowing not many steps ahead of us.

The riverside bent in a gentle slope, where grass grew sparser and ground turned sodden. We followed the sweet subsidence, slipping on the bog and soaking our breeches wet with the grassy mud lifted by our feet. At the end of our swift descent, there it was: the Reach. Somehow, the path we had followed led us at few metres of distance from a huge ford; even if a short scoutwas anyway recommendable, as far as we could see wading across the river would have required but a little time. Apparently,there was no need to venture in search ofany bridge, where the crossing would have been presumably well kept by either guardsmen or brigand- or evenboth, as it was quite common, since not every bann had tolle xaction carefully supervised as it should be.Fernil smirked: everything went precisely as he had planned. “ _Here you see, you_ _grouchy gal_ _: this is why we didn't walk as straight as you wished. Happy, now?_ _Grumbling_ _, all the time, that's_ _all_ _what_ _you youngsters are_ _good at_ _”_ he muttered. It meant he was incredibly pleased of himself: whenever he was well disposed, in fact, he tried to show a certain air of confidence but given how stiffly he used to behave like, his attempts were extremely clumsy and often embarrassing. It annoyed me every time that he did that but, right then,I found it rather reassuring; it meant that we were safe, at least for now, and, perchance, that, once crossed the Reach, we would have slowed down our pace, recovering a bit from the last, furious stages. I was in dire need of sleep; despite all my attempts, in fact, and as soon as I had resolved to learn how to step into lucid dreams, my visions had faded.

Apparently, my feverish determination to explore the Beyond made my soul unwelcome to its inhabitants. What else could account for the fact that, the stronger I wished to see it again, the more the Fade denied itself to me, leaving me, at the same time, frustrated and burning of renewed desire? _A_ _matter of patience_. _A_ _mere accident_ , due to how much sleep our forced pace bereaved me of. _A_ _n inconvenient of night-watching_ , _a side effect_ ; I was just missing a moment of peace to recollect my senses and focus on my visions. Such was the ridiculous amount of excuses that I devised, in order to feel reassured about what was happening. I was worried, and frightened that my purpose might have wavered at my failures. Still, there was an element of truth to my justifications, and one I could hardly ignore: it was a fact that, recently , I had started to have troubles with sleeping. I rest too little and too badly. I woke up frequently, and way before it was my turn to seat beside the fire and watch over ; my slumber s w ere never so deep that a feeble rustling of leaves moved by the wind, or even the weak crackling of our modest fire could not have me w akened with a jump. I tried to conceal my startled awakenings from the obser vant eyes of Fernil, turning to lay on a flank or just pretending I needed to pee. T hen, I withdrew into scrubs , trying to compose myself . C _ome on, Innuin, there is no need to be_ _that_ _nervous, now you go and rest another bit, and, if you can s_ _ta_ _y calm enough, you will dream again,_ this I repeated to myself each time, before I made my way back to my pallet, where Fernil greeted me with a stern remark - _three hour left_ _before_ _it's_ _your turn; two hours to the watch; just_ _one_. I nodded in return, stretching on the ground and trying to focus on anything else- the sky above my head, the golden reflections of fire dancing on the frame of my sprawled legs. Then, I fell back to a blind slumber, shortly visited by the recollection of another fire I was used to see, when the Beyond had not closed its gates to me, yet. Sometimes, the memory was so vivid I believed I was finally back to the Fade, but it was then that either a sudden noise or the time of my watch drew me out of my dreams.

We stepped few paces towards the riverside, where islets of silt swished with rank bamboos and blood lotuses swayed their burgundy heads, as if following a remote tune we could not ear. Tired of the hasty walk as we both were, yet relieved by how eased the way looked like, we stilled in awe at the sight of the glimmering waters. The Reach ran in gentle swirls and a freshbreeze breathed, at times, carrying the heady scent of what bay grass, timber and birds' dung brewed, sedimented where stream tarried in lazy whirlpools. The ford was but a widening of the riverbed, which had probably been caused by dregs of loam, somewhere in the past: few meters ahead to the West, though, the delayed flow slid along a steep bar, causing foamy ripples and short falls, by which stream was made swifter. At a first glance, an inexperienced wanderer would have judged the passage quite safe, and the ford was such, indeed, but just as long as you did not passed the bar. However mild, the quickening of the flow was enough to drag you far from the banks, to the middle of the bed, where probably other inclines hid in the lee and waters turned deeper. I knew enough of rivers to see we had to cross carefully, yet there was no reason to fear, as long as we kept Eastward, where a tier of small boulders had been placed in a track to ease the wading.

A peep, and I inspected the northern side of the river: stream tended to turn to its right, so that silt and dregs converged rather on our side of the riverbank; across the Reach, though, we saw a massive cliff raise, covered with a profusion of lotuses, towering bamboos and willows. Vegetation was so lush, there, that one would have hardly seen through it, and the thing obviously did not bide well. Fords like this were perfectly fit for the purpose of bandits, who placed their vanguards wherever a fair amount of spots and a consistent lack of surveillance granted them room for going undisturbed.

\- _Hush!_ \- Fernil said, stopping me with a hand on my forearm. He pushed me to the ground, and the same did he, lowering his head as to keep it under the line of a spot of False Yellowheadthat provided a modest but sufficient screen from prying eyes

\- Something is moving over there...

\- Do you think anybody's here?

\- Most likely, yes. I feared something like that, but frankly I had forgotten the left riverbank was that tricky. I have a bad feeling about it. We should be careful -

\- So, what? Are we going to stay here and wait, just like that?

\- Don't be silly, girl, I'll come up with something. But, for the moment, yes, we'd better trying to sneak a little bit back and find a quiet spot to inspect how things go. Come along; with a bit of luck, none has noticed our presence yet, and we don't want them to, do we?

We crept back on our previous steps, keeping to our left and trying to move as swiftly as we could without being caught. A huge spot of that herb humans call holy rope, which Dalish commonly know instead as _Shartan's_ _pride_ , grew at our right, both tall and thick enough to serve as a fair shelter as long as we might have been able to determine whether to wade or not. Peeking through the rocking stems we stood in quiet observation, for I could not recall how long a while. Time seemed to retard oddly, slowed by the expectation that something, anything, happened. My eyes lingered on what was left of _Shartan's pride_ flowers- thousands racemes, blossoming in small spears of delicate shape, evenly proportioned the one to the others, as if a skilled artisan had carved them one by one. They emanated a soft, pleasant perfume but the late hour of the season made it melt into a heady scent of rot, sweet enough, though, to intoxicate some bee, still buzzing around the red, little pikes; according to some mischievous Dalish sulahnin, they were the real reason why the plant had been named after the rebel believed to have bedded the revered Andraste.

Distracted by similar thoughts, I had averted my focus from the ford, when Fernil drew my loosened attention, as something had stirred through the bushes- something that did not look quite like an animal, or a sudden rush of the wind. We spied intently whatever hid within the underbrush: for distant as they were, the facing riverbanks were close enough that anyone standing on either of them might have seen and be seen from the opposite side, an inconvenient camouflage could prevent but not suppress, if you knew where to search. And we, being hunters, were certainly better skilled than average passengers at driving out our prey, which, on the other hand, had lost the advantage of its cover up. This was, perchance, a comforting sign that, were we dealing with bandits, they simply had not realized to be spied. Finally, we caught them- or, at least, two of them, sitting within the reeds and the false yellow-head thickets, dressed in rough, ashen-coloured fabric and filthy enough with mud that we had not seen them so far. Only one of them wore a peculiar purple-red ascot, knotted at his neck, whose ends fell flat on his chest, screened with a raw piece of armour, from whom we deduced he was likely the leader, or a man of some consequence within the brigand. His fellow had sort of an armour, too, but it was clearly shaped in leather, though a thick and dry one, coriaceous enough to serve proficiently against our strikes. At their side, a more attentive observation revealed a pair of quite decent swords; daggers were probably hidden from our view, given how poor was our angle of sight, but I could guess, among the blood lotuses, a rounded, brown shape- wooden shields, thus; not a refined piece of smithery, maybe, yet, by all means, an effective barrier.

\- Those are not average robbers- Fernil breathed in disbelief.

Bandits were actually a perfectly ordinary inconvenient on Fereldan routes; we had probably missed a lot of unpleasant meetings, stirring away from the highways as we did, but most of the attackers we were likely to find on our way were used-to-be peasants, before they chose to take their weapons and dedicate themselves to robbery and rape. Still, for terrifying they were to ploughmen like them or, say, some improvident salesman travelling in search of a modest trade in rustic goods, no skilled warrior would have found, in them, a match worth to worry about. Which was precisely the reason why they usually hide where they may have found unarmed and defenceless victims to prey. They knew it would have been hard to compete with guards patrolling highway bridges, not to mention the eventuality those same guards were in relation of mutual bribing with some major groups of actual hijackers, whose influence, gear and skills were much more greater than those of mean drabblers, lacking any combat training. Still, those kind of highwaymen- raiders and outlaw, for the most part, with unsuspected friends within the ranks of local military and political potentates- were unlikely to ambush travellers at a modest ford: much greater indeed was the profit they could gain hanging around the wide commercial routes that crossed the Bannorn, in many direction, and in such a plenty that even the earnest squire had to hire mercenaries to keep them safe. On the other hand, it was not a secret that mercenaries found perfectly logical to arrange deals with those same crooks they were paid to fight back; their friendly intercourses included menacing “wanted” posters, a good couple of fracas and all the art of propitiation a pacific coexistence requires.

Gears and weapons worn by those men, though, spoke rather of trained fighter than of miserable rubes, driven to violence by deprivation or moral deviance. Even the way they stood- that calm countenance, as if they were just enjoying a bit of cool after a pleasing stroll- looked quite uncommon for such place. Perhaps we were so lucky that they were alone; we could either hope to slip away unnoticed or, since it took many miles northward to the next ford, we might have waited for them to leave. In both cases, though, neither the distance between the banks, nor their gears let us a sufficient edge to strike. Ours were short, compound bows, reinforced with sinew backs: they could reach further than a human-crafted weapon of same kind, yet our arrows had been prepared whilst travelling, shaping their heads in rough obsidian and bones, which made them better suitable to hunting than to any other purpose of offence.

\- Should we leave now?

\- I'd rather know more about these solitary friends of ours, like if there are others here around, or when do they plan to leave; we are too far from Brecilian Ford, not to say that I like better to stir away from that damned place. Don't see why, after all we did to round it, we should be backed by two shemlen assholes, having a picnic right now that I was supposed to wade this shit of a river in peace!

I listened silently to his imprecations: he was not new to such intemperance, to whom he indulged whenever some hindrance delayed him from sticking to his plans. I had learnt at my own expense that any intervention would have merely doubled his disappointment, so I chose instead to focus on what was going on across the river, where something moving had abruptly caught my attention. They were stirring, indeed, the two men, as if they aimed to the ford; although they did not seem in a hurry, it was clear they were waiting for something to come from our side of the banks, for they peeped above the reeds screening their sight, spying the slope at our back. I sharpened my ears, as much as both the weariness of our recent march and my several days long lack of sleep allowed me to. Moist earth is a treacherous terrain, when it comes to catching closening steps, for it absorbs vibration more than dry earth does. Yet, if footsteps might have been muffled, there was no way of concealing the tinkle of metal gears. We flattened among the trembling stalks, almost digging ourselves into the ground, amidst agrimony roots. Whoever was coming, there was no way to guess whom they might be a threat for, whether for us, for bandits, or neither. As far as we could guess, though, things did not look quite promising; judging from the iron cadence of their approach, the incomers were no less than three, and possibly suited in full plate armours.

 

 

 

 

Note: This is what I here called Shartan's blood. It is known as hemp agrimony, and holy rope, too. I think it is beautiful.

 


	12. The man at the riverbank

 

Much to our luck, the new comers aimed to their left before they could spot us from above the incline. As far as we could see, there were four of them, three men and a boy, all armoured and with weapon suited to their gear. A long piece of burgundy velvet hang from the edge of their cuirass, covering their legs, also shielded by greaves that glittered through it. The gown- for I did not find any other way to call it- was embroidered with a pattern of little, golden stars, and bordered with matched trimming. The band of fabric they wore as a belt, over their iron faulds, was fastened by a huge buckle, carrying what I assumed to be a rune, and some pouches, spotted with a blue matter, dangled from it. Two of them carried heavy, wide kite shields with curved bodies; the enamelled crest represented a sword, circled by tongues of blue fire; along the tassels protecting their left thighs, I saw huge blades sheathed in scabbards of tooled leather. The boy, instead, who was clearly any kind of apprentice, or a soldier of lower rank, wore a sober suite and a much shorter gown, with no embroidery on it, but the bow he had secured between his back and the quivers sling drew my attention. It was a compound longbow of exquisite shape, with red dyed sinews that connected the well tensed string to the carved tips of its limbs. The silver grip reverberated at each sunbeam that stroke it, shining in cold refulgence.

The man who led them wore no shield; a massive axe was secured to his back by a strong strip and, unlike his companions, he walked bare faced, carrying his haume under the left arm. He was short. yet of sturdy complexion and, judging by his square, tanned features, just on the threshold of his fifties. His elaborate armour was much richer than those of his followers; rampant pauldrons reared on his shoulders, recalling the flames that circled the sword, also embossed on the middle of his breastplate. Even his gown was different, dyed in a deep shade of blue, and with silver embroidery, and the runes on his buckle did not resemble those of his subordinates; for he was certainly their commander, as both his countenance and their unvoiced solicitude suggested.

Templars, definitely. I did not need Fernil's bafflement to confirm my suspicions. I had recognized them since I had seen their symbols, the same that had us turning on our heels in quite the opposite direction, whenever we saw their banners floating in the fields, where garrisons camped, during their patrols. We had never been so close to so many of them: only on occasions, and from a much safer distance, we had detected a pair of soldiers dressing similar suites and scouting the underbrush, most likely in search of fugitives from the Circles of Magi, an issue that was becoming more and more pressing at each turn of day. Little could I know of the hardships that afflicted mages, though, especially at the time, when I had still few reasons to care; I only knew Templars chased magic beings and served as keeper of the only, legitimate Faith shemlen seem to tolerate. Running into them would have probably implied a significant delay, to tell it with a turn of phrase, particularly since they considered with great suspicion two lone Dalish roaming the hinterland without apparent purpose. They would have likely jumped to the most obvious conclusion, which is, that we ought to have been mages, for they were certainly well informed about the habits of our clans. Perhaps, they would have noticed something odd about me, and who knew whether they would have let us free to leave, or decided to bring me with them. In any case, which I thought was Fernil's main concern, for I could not know how much aware he was of my inclination, Dalish had no patron, once detached from their kin. And which sort of match might warriors like those find in a man and a girl, no matter how skilled? Steel and runes gained an undisputable edge over rough timber and bone.

My short acquaintance with Templars suggested that they harboured scarce concern for what issue showed no direct relation with their actual tasks; still, I could hardly believe they would not have reacted to a plain violation of shemlen's laws. Their come was probably far from what brigands expected and I braced myself to assist their quick retreat. For once, Templars might have proved of some use.  
I had soon to change my mind, however. Not only the bandits saw the soldiers approaching; they even stepped slowly to the shoreline, and there they stood, nodding at them, as a sign of welcome. Templars did not seem all that impressed to find the ford guarded; were they either expecting to run into hijackers or determined to pass, they went on and waded the Reach to its half, stopping right in the middle at a nod from their commander. We flattened to the ground in observation: they had paused only few metres at our left, and the angle disfavoured us. I see the archer turning imperceptibly to his right, as if to peek in inspection; his eyes were almost invisible, through the narrow slits of his visor, but I could sense them lingering in our direction. They were little, sharp, silver blue eyes; only few seconds, and blood was freezing still in my veins, when their chieftain spoke, and the boy redirected his focus on him, averting his inquisitive look from where the tip of my bow mingled within swinging stems.

At the centre of the Reach, he commander was now standing steady on his broadened legs, chin lift slightly in patent defiance.  
\- Here we come, Maggots. We have brought your money. Now give us the load, and leave.

The man with the red ascot- it had to be him the Templar had referred to as Maggots- gave a half smile. He had well proportioned limbs and, had I not seen his face, I could have called him handsome; but his features were sharp in an unpleasant manner, and his black, wide eyes has something feverish about them, as he was sick, or not completely recovered from a long lasted illness of some vicious sort. The tips of his ears were horribly mangled and ridged in ugly scars but, notwithstanding those and several other marks that pocked his face, he had something mesmerizing about him- even before he uttered a word.

\- Well, and good day to you too, Captain Fury; we hope you and your men had a pleasant journey so far. We quite enjoyed our stroll, ourselves, but alas, we use to travelling light. I trust you shall excuse us for not having our goods at hand- you know, one can never know what sort of bandits are found on unguarded roads. But fear not; your load will be here in a while. It is not a habit of mine to keep gentlemen waiting; I see it is a fairly rare attention, but a man let himself be known from his manners, and it would be only deplorable, producing the wrong impression on someone of your consequence.

The look of embarrassment the Commander let out spoke of how cunningly those words had been targeted.

\- Very well, I see your point. We have been...delayed, in fact, by some _gentlemen_ requiring our attention, not far from the West Road.

\- Everyone claiming to be a gentleman, so few behaving alike; I know what you mean- Maggots answered with a devious grin; the Commander crimsoned, yet did not retort.

\- And since we know what being a well-learned man is like, I would offer you some sort of refreshments; unfortunately, the place is quite rough and we have not an established camp with proper commodities; we have to arrange as best as we can. Speaking of which, a reminder came to me of a little issue we had at hand, the last time I met your superordinates. I remember they mentioned a deal about some outskirts of the Highway, few miles north from here; after all, we offer a commendable service to the Arling, by watching places the bureaucrats have apparently too much ado to furnish with adequate patrols. It is very convenient that my friends and I take care of protecting unaware passengers from the perils of the road. It surprises me that none has thought of rewarding us for our efforts, yet. I suppose government lacks men of your integrity, Commander; citizens of good will would not be forced to require modest, yet unofficial incentives from those same we strive to keep safe. It casts an unflattering shadow on our reputation- You know, they take us for those fake sort of gentlemen you were delayed by- bandits, they call them. Not quite our style. Sadly, few are so enlightened to understand some things the Everyman holds as illegal are just short-cuts, aimed to the greater good. I hope your memory will help you see my point again, Commander- and, in saying so, the strange man cast a sharp glance to his interlocutor, who answered this time, in a husky tone:

\- I thought you were more interested in trades, actually-

\- Absolutely; but, as you well know, fare is the soul of business, and fares are becoming quite an undertaking, in such troubled times. We had more than an issue in making our goods come from Orzammar; it seems unrecorded cargos are rather short-lived, when it comes to crossing the Bannorn, and I had to recoup with some, say, community service. In the meantime, I have discovered much about the state of Arling roads; interesting field of study, indeed. I am persuaded that, if some of your men could offer a modest assistance in clearing the area between the West Road and, for instance, Highmount valley, we will be able to arrange much better supplies for you and, why, keeping those annoying bandits at bay. Passengers would probably have to pay out a proportionate contribution; but what are few pieces of metal, in exchange for a better quality of life and a flourishing trade? It goes to the good of the whole community, and it costs so little to its beneficiaries. You will not find a fairest interchange in all of Thedas, you have my word; and, were people satisfied of the commodities we offer, they would know 'tis you who must be thanked. Well, they would have known anyway, but such are details a gentleman should never bother to care for.

\- But, as you said before, so many claim to be gentlemen, yet so few behave alike; and I am a soldier, Maggots, rather than a Lord, do not forget it. I have never claimed to bear a hint of nobility in my blood. We had a deal, money in return for lyrium, but, for the rest, I am not responsible of vain promises my higher ups made to you. I told you since the very beginning I could not grant for what you asked, and things have not changed, at least not so far. I cannot assign my men to random destinations; I may say they are tracking apostates, yes, for a while, perhaps: anyway, not for a long time, though. As I said you once, I could arrange you a free pass, to provide you all the ease you'd need to have your wares travelling along the Highway, with all the benefits a safer route may grant you. But do not ask for more: what you require is by far beyond my possibilities.

Maggots crossed his slender arms.

\- It looks like we have come to a dead-end, here, but I appreciate your frankness and, to prove you my good disposition, it is only fair that I return you the favour. You see, people like me have to make their way through an unamicable world; being a self made man, in a place where everyone has a friend, a relative or a patron, quick to provide him of an allowance, an introduction or even a privilege, is often unrewarding. I like to consider myself a sort of pioneer. Yet, in my position, you will understand that I have to pay the greatest attention to my investments; not only because I want to see my payback, but even because I have a responsibility on men like me. People who have none in this world; people on which none would have bet a miserable coin- people, to cut it short, on which I have been the only one to invest. And I want my reward; I want a profit from the toil my men and I have undertaken. As a commander, you certainly know what I mean; how personal such things feel like. I cannot allow my investments to turn into a loss; I cannot even let my men think I make an improvident use of their resorts, after I promised I would have given them a chance to emerge. I asked your superiors a favour: they told me to speak with you, and now you come with an offer, of which I thank you, but that bears no valour to me. A permit like that you proffer has one, great liability: I should pay a toll, in any case, and even provided your masters let me in peace, the whole thing is far less profitable and much more exposed to corrupted guardsmen, to whom Templars mean almost nothing. Jurisdiction over a certain area is much safer and more rewarding, and, in addition, it is exactly what I have set out to attain. Now you come and say me my modest request is _far beyond your possibilities_. You see, you have put me in the embarassing position of having few ways out. I have to pick one between these two choices: one is about yelds, the other is about the so called “balance of power”; I would rather have you paying a double prize for goods I had a lot of troubles in bringing here, but who knows if my men prefer to kill you and sell the lyrium to a better offerer? I cannot let my authority be questioned my for vile gold's sake. Anyhow, since a wise leader always listen to his subordinates, we are only lucky they have just arrived; let's ask _them_ what do they think, shall we?

Maggots facundity had clearly given his men a significant edge; whilst the Templars were listening to his peroration, in fact, Fernil and I had assisted to the slow approach of no less than ten men from the mould at Maggot's shoulders. They had carefully avoided the uncovered sweep right behind the ford, circumventing Templars so to surprise them from their left, whence a crook in the river course sheltered them with a thick spot of vegetation. When Templars realized their presence, it was too late; the brigands had already circled them with a artfully timed manoeuvre.

Maggots gave a sign: two men came out of the thickets at his back, dragging a massive crate, almost as tall as its bearers. Above the slope, I saw a man leaning on a long, black staff; a mage, clearly, which was probably the reason why neither Fernil nor I had noticed the box.

\- I knew there was a bloody mage at work, somewhere!- one of the Templars roared, moving his hand to grasp the sword hilt, but the Commander turned at him, hissing him an order I could not catch.

\- We all knew it, indeed. Well played, Maggots, you have my compliments; still, it seems to me you are being unreasonable. My offer is honest and I have money enough for all of you; the Five Towers Committee will not let the death of a Commander pass without taking measures, and you do have an apostate among your men, whose magic has surely left trace that could be tracked down to determine their source. Moreover, I hope you won't think me so naive to have come here without provisions; I have scouts, far from here and distant enough that reaching it would take too long for your men, yet not so much that they would not notice I am not coming back in reasonable time. They will find you, Maggots; and they are not just a bunch of thugs, like you and your comrades.

\- Unfortunately, Commander, we neither are just _a bunch_ ; there are others like us, on either side of the river. Your scouts, as you call them, have been no match to us: I won't hesitate to define them a bluff. And right now, I am no longer that sure that I want sell my lyrium to someone who doesn't play it fair. Let's hope my comrades are less attached to such formalities.

Maggots face had completely transformed. From the unpleasant display of cordiality he had postured so far, his expression had turned dark and menacing, his eyes unbearably black and bright like poisoned jets, his stance the most intimidating I had ever seen in human being. The mage waited quietely, his hands crossed between his chin and the tip of his staff: nothing in his composure led to believe he had a part in the surprising shift in Maggots countenance.  
As for the latter, he was now addressing his men; they stood still, their weapons pointed at the Templars, ready to shoot at the first move, in a dreadful silence, broken only by the sounds that wind arose from the river.

When he spoke, Maggots' voice was as cold as steel and as sharp as a field of briers, and a eerie rasp reverberated from the core of his throat, as its vibration reached my heart and made it shiver.

\- What should we do of these Templars, who were sent here to mock us, after all the efforts we made to keep faith to our word? Their commander says he cannot provide us what we asked for; it is not his fault, though, and maybe they should not pay for a mistake their superiors did; but what of their threats to our brother Ruthilian, what of the scout they left behind, distrusting our intentions? Will we let them say we are such easy men to be fooled? Will we let pass the offence their order moved to us, instead of giving them and their puppet masters the lesson all their kind deserves?

It was then that the mage spoke; few, clear words, pummeting like rocks down a craig.

\- Perhaps we should ask our guests.

I felt a rush of warm air, and then Fernil saying “Bloody bastard”.

At our feet, the lush stems of agrimony- the proud, little spears of its beautiful, blood-red flowers lied reduced into nothing more than ashes. Everybody turned to look in our direction: I had never seen so many weapons pointed at us at the same time  
My mind blanked, whilst something else I did not know surged from my guts in a wild rush that thrust me up onto my feet before Fernil could stop me. I felt earth throb under me and a low, thundering rumble roaring from some unknown depth, whether mine or rising from the riverbed, I could not say. Someone screamed, I heard the whiz of darts and arrows flashing few inches past my ears. I knew I should have been running from the very start, trying but to set between me and that place all the distance my legs allowed me to, but something simply kept me cemented on the spot, like my feet were frozen. I could barely perceive anything, except the ground shaking under me and the howl of some kind of storm all around: my eyes were clouded by sudden spots of light and my arms trembled like I was standing right in the eye of a snowstorm. I sensed Fernil was no longer at my side. A blinding lightning fell right in front of me and I heard a growl coming from somewhere in the mist wrapping me- something much like “ _Stop th_ _at_ _bitch and whatever she is doing_ ”. Then, I blacked out.

I was laying in front of the portal, back into the starkness of the Fade. I sighed in recognition, relieved to find the Beyond had not completely spurned me. Still, I was too weak to get up, and my heart let a faint, slowed beat that was draining away what little strength remained in my veins.  
_So, this is the end_.  
I tried to cry, but my tears were dry as the barren land I rest upon. I used my last energies to caress the dry, yellow grass. It smelled of dust. I grabbed a handful of it and put it into my mouth: it is odd, how much you desire to sense and taste life, when it is slipping away from your fingers. I swallowed the dirt and lost myself in its acrid sweetness.  
_Now, wake up. Wake up, child._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was curious about how I picture to myself my Lavellan, there she is: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/e3/a9/af/e3a9af5da5666f7827c00cf6c725b046.jpg


	13. Alive and awake

_\- What did you expect? The girl was frightened. Perhaps she’d never seen so many humans crowding in the same place-_

_- **I**  expected nothing else that what was in our plans. I expected my business to end with a bag of gold into my pockets and my men headed to the North. This is how it was supposed to go. Last time I checked, you had been informed, as well_

_\- She has no part in what happened; well, to be honest, she does, but she’s not the only one to blame for it. You should account me for what has come; I have been mistaken. I suspected they were scouts of the Stoats._

_\- I will deal with you later about the matter, don’t doubt that. But I am no fool: I see why you did it. Punishing you won't ease our position. She's made a mess, and that cunt she came with has simply evaporated. For what we know, even assuming she’s not one of them, he might, instead. I hope you see how compromised we are. Delays keep us exposed to further dangers: it is definitely a priority that you awake her, somehow._

_\- The girl has suffered a serious shock; I can aid her awakening, which I am making every effort in order to, but I assure you, if we force her or, worse, subject her to motion of any sort, the outcomes are quite unpredictable. The entire situation could slip out of hands._

_\- And pray, mage, what should I care, after she has wasted all what we had strived for? Just because she is one of your kind, are you certain that taking her side would prove a wise move?_

_- **I am certain** you will find her some purpose; after all, is it not what you pride yourself to be best at, finding profits where none else could? She is innocent, and though I am not exactly a benefactor, I would suggest you patience. The girl is a powerful sorcerer, though rather unripe: would it not be unprofitable, to waste such a potential, once we have it at our complete disposal?_

_\- One trained mage is danger enough that I might dislike the prospect of increasing our exposure, especially if it implies committing myself to the rescue of a perfect stranger who has just smashed my stock. Not to mention she has almost killed my men, and all because she was “unripe” and got nervous in front of a pair of pikes._

_\- Five pairs of pikes, a fair number of crossbows, four Templars and a mage, to be precise. Yes, she got nervous, which, given the situation, is perfectly understandable-_

_\- Screwed you and her nerves and all you mages, and me, since I am even listening to your rambling. Get me the girl, awake and able to spit out why the hell was she posting there, and maybe, if she’s alive and still talkative once I'm done, I may even rethink of your nonsenses._

Two men were speaking, not far from where I laid. One voice sounded strangely familiar- it must have been a grown up man, his accent learned and sweetened by a pleasant placidity; the other one, on the contrary, was rasping, grim, and it thrilled me, as if related to an old pain. My mind was still dazed, but at least their words were intelligible to my comprehension. I had foggy memories: days spent in a sort of limb, not intermitted but by short strolls into the Fade and frequent awakenings, during which my perception had been faint, instable. Every sound I heard melted in my ears into nightmarish rumbles, and my eyes could barely adjust to milky spots of colour, floating amidst flashes of painful light.  
Red flowers. Water. A sunny morning, bright with the crystal-clearness of Harvestmere skies. A river, then; but, beyond that, my mind refused to be forced in recollections. A burdening weakness overpowered me and panic jolted all over my limbs, as strings of words came to my senses: _Stop the bitch and whatever she is doing. If she’s alive and still talkative once I am done. I consider myself a sort of pioneer. That cunt she was with has simply evaporated._

\- Hush, girl. Calm down.

My eyelids disclosed before I had realized: despite a momentary disarray, as I was pleased to find, my sight had improved to the point I could focus on the man standing at my bedside. My ragged breath must have drawn his attention, distracting him from his companion: for a while, I wondered if he was still there. The bare idea was so disturbing I emerged from my haze, like a drowning man struggling through deadly waters. Suddenly aware of myself and of my condition, I tried to articulate some speech and, though my throat felt too parched to suffer the effort, eventually I managed to utter what were probably my first words in a week or more.

\- Is he gone?

The man plied his thin lips in a knowing smirk and nodded, throwing a glance at his back. Then, he sat at my side. He was on his forties, with short, dark red hair cut in rough fashion. His features were handsome, the first wrinkles naturally brought by age combining with the brightness of a still fresh skin. I felt like washed by the warmth of his brown eyes, whose light shades edged the greenish yellow of ambers. His ears were small and of delicate shape, similar to those shell I used to pick along watercourses, in search of those tiny, irregular pearls that grown at their inside. Their tips, however, looked longish, at least for what I expected.  
The manner of his answer, the familiarity with whom he sat on my pallet and, perhaps, the solace of being alive and recovering gained over my own timidity: I stretched my fingers and reached for those strange ears. It was an odd thing to do, and probably inappropriate, too- although I ignored the customs of humans on the matter, Dalish were quite touchy about that part of their body; to excuse myself, yet, I had never really cared for it, as such formalities, however common among grown up people, meant little to youngsters. The mage, though, was quick to intercept my hand and grasped it firmly; a flicker of annoyance passed on his face, but it was ephemeral- shadows of clouds over sunny fields in the autumn breeze. He had realized my confusion: his disappointment was already gone.

\- I am sorry; I thought you meant to hit me. It would make sense, after all. Forgive me, girl- he added. His voice sounded almost…sweet. My hand flumped on the bed as he released it.  
Apparently, I had asked too much of my strengths: my head spun lightly, and I let a discomforted lament.  _Water_.

\- Oh, yes, water- of course you need water- he mumbled, probably more to himself.  
I was on the verge of losing consciousness, again, but I tried to soothe myself: as if nothing, I had enough wits to realize it.  
The mage had left my side. I closed my eyes: my energies had to be stored for later, before I blanked again, or dehydration would have nullified all the efforts that, as I could assume, the man must have done to keep me alive. I heard him rummaging somewhere before the bed, through what sounded like vials and tiny metallic objects. An herbal scent of officinal plants followed the swift moves of my caretaker, while the feeble rustle his smooth steps made onto the ground answered the next question: what manner of place was that? As it seemed, we were in a tent or, maybe, a cabin, with straw and leaves strewn to pave the bare dirt.  
The mage was now approaching to my pallet: a liquid washed in a bottle or a pitcher, as I could guess, but I resisted the impulse of opening my eyes and watch: I knew my vision would have not been half as terse as I hoped and something in my mind suggested sparing myself the blur.

\- Here, girl; drink

He eased me so that I could lift to reach the edge of the jug, from whom I eagerly drank, spilling part of the liquid all over my chest; it was water, but with something within- a salty, spicy flavour that recalled me anise, and tasted unexpectedly refreshing. I felt somehow reinvigorated, and the whirl in my head quieted down. Though still physically exhausted, I had regained my lucidity.

\- Lyrium and wolf-root- he explained, noticing I hesitated, after the first, ravenous gulps the thirst had made me swallow with much less care.

\- It will help you rebuilt your mana stores. You have suffered a serious draught, after that magic of yours.

\- I am not a mage- I hissed through a pant, collapsing on the small pillow under my head.

\- No need to pretend with me, girl; I mean no threat to you and, unless you act unreasonably, we are going to get along very nicely.

\- I told you, I am no mage!-

The man lift his shoulder, a grin of resignation flashing upon his lips.

\- All right, then, as you wish. Anyway, it is too soon to speak of the matter. Wolf-root will make its work: in a few, you will fall asleep again, and, since I see you have recovered your wit, once you wake up, you will be perfectly fine.

\- I have no wish to sleep

\- Of that, I have few doubts

\- Which place is this? Why am I here?

\- Why, upon my word, you must be Dalish: none else is half as good at pissing people off. Very well, then, since you insist... 

His low, gentle voice transfigured into a pool of golden warmth, and I slipped into it, getting lost into the Fade before his words could reach me.

 

I woke up later, ignoring for how long I had been sleeping, and found they had left me completely unguarded. I felt still clouded, but undoubtedly present to myself and with sufficient strength for getting to sit on the bed. Apparently, I was in a tent- a huge one, quite unlike the Dalish ones. Four massive poles dug into the ground. As I had imagined, dried herbs, sand and leaves paved it, effusing a restoring scent of fresh cut grass. Thick fabric hanged from hidden props, designing a square of noticeable width, in which my bed, another smaller pallet and some barrels arranged as tables provided a rough, yet handy furniture. Few steps from the bottom of my bed, a wooden plank laid on two cages served as a desk: the shelf bent under the burden of several, small bottles, gathered up with leather pouches and an assortment of tiny boxes and bags. Someone had displayed a handful of herbs over a towel, with the possible purpose of letting them desiccate. A sack of tightly plaited jutes hang from the corner of the table: its heady fragrance of anise filled the air, reminding me of the poultice the mage had handled me:  _lyrium_ , he had called it. I had heard that word before, yet could not recall where or when.

Girdles of herbs lolled from the ceiling, along with cheese wheels and some cured meats.  
I lift my head to find several little hooks stuck into each pole, to whom threads had been secured that ran from one pillow to the other: here and there, rudimentary clips pinched clothes and rags to the ropes, and I could hear a damp sound of drops dripping on the floor. A row of backpacks laid at one corner, with robes and tools piled on them. I tried to listen to what sound may come from outside, but the entrance was screened with additional cloths- something like a carpet dyed in dark tonalities, probably meant to shelter from direct light, but was evidently as effectual in muffling noises, much to my frustration. What little light still filtered through the dense warp of the tent cast a shade of reddening gold on everything the approaching darkness had yet to swallow. I left the bed and reached for the table where the mage kept his supplies, lingering in admiration of all those strange vials, some of which filled with liquids of amazingly vivid colours. I remembered the concoctions Fernil used to arrange; I’d have been better not touching: a bare weaver of a hand, and more than one of those pretty little bottles could explode right on the spot. Then, my curiosity drew me to the lyrium. I dag into the sack and picked up the crackling bundle it contained, which I hurried to unfold, my hands made unsteady by a mix of both anxiety and anticipation. I buried my fingers in the soft envelope within, just to withdraw them soaked in a greasy, refined dust that spotted everything I touched with a pale shade of blue. I tried the matter with the tip of my tongue: it tasted like the water the mage had fetched me, only saltier and more bittersweet, yet not in an unpleasant manner.  
My gut groaned: hunger, thirst and all the physical needs days of unconsciousness had dampened in my flesh awoke all at once, as lyrium has shaken my blood: I had yet to learn mages respond naturally to the ancient song the blue stone whispers to their bodies. I needed both food and a bath and, I resolved, dropping the thing, I needed to leave that place and find Fernil.

I made a rapid check of my ownings. The mage was clearly a healer; I owed him my life and, perchance, he was to be accounted for the decision of bringing me there, for I could barely doubt his companion would have lost the opportunity of leaving me to my fate.  
He had undressed me of my buckskin jacket, now resting on a barrel not far from the bedside; the strips made of leather and hemp that had provided my footwear had been folded atop the barrel as well. My thin trousers had been carefully laid on the bottom of the bed; I wore but an oversized shirt, under whom the mage had not dared to remove either my breast bands or the loose pants we used to protect bare skin from coarse leather. My mother's sack was gone, as were my bow and my quiver, as it seemed. Nonetheless, I still cradled the vague hope I could sneak out unnoticed, gods assisting, and in case I had been so lucky hat my stuff was hidden somewhere around there, perhaps not that far from the packs I had noticed few minutes before. The place used as a sort of warehouse; maybe, they had stored my things along with their own, expecting that, once awakened, I would have been still too weak to plan a flight.

Such a poor experience they had, when it came to Dalish rangers- I grinned to myself, shifting along the tent perimeter. Yet, after some minutes of careful consideration, my bow looked nowhere to be seen and, together with it, the thing I cared for the most. Dreadfully discomforted, I sat among a bunch of straw; I loved my bow, but I could bear to part myself from it, as long as it would gain me my liberty; but leaving behind the only thing left of my mother, that was definitely out of question. Whatever edge I had gained on my hosts, it was quickly vanishing: noises arose from outside, and I knew someone was approaching. I heard far, yet distinguishable voices mingling with hard laughter and rough jokes addressed to a guy named Farlaine, while someone else moved closer, as suddenly set in motion by the arrival of the company. Unless my hearing deceived me, then, bandits deserted the camp and, since it looked unlikely that they left their goods unguarded, a small garrison had been setting watch, quietly waiting for their fellows to return: this explained the odd silence dwelling upon the place, so far. The mage had probably partaken in the scout, which meant I had but few moments to resolve the course of my actions, before he came in and found me crouched like a wild cat into the purple damp the sunset was unfurling on earth.

While I was still considering my rather poor options, someone burst into the tent, almost trampling the carpet under his foot. He stood backlight: I could not guess his face, but I was rather certain he was not the mage. His frame was tall and slender and, since he stood out against the remnants of red light reflected on the fabric, his dark clothed shape looked as if graved in nocturnal flesh. I curled into the straw, intimidated. The man seemed to be quite in a haste and, much to my luck, did not notice the empty bed, where he probably expected the prisoner to lie. He rushed to the poultices and ransacked the desk mercilessly, unconcerned about the vials he overthrew, spilling their fluids all around. Then, muttering swears, he approached my hiding, rummaging more and more frantically through the sacks. I heard him grumbling something about a plaster; eventually, he kneeled and seemed to falter. Emitting a chocked hiss of pain, he propped himself on his palms, wobbling his head as if trying to chase away an insect buzzing around his ears. By instinct, I searched for the source of his distress. It did not take that long to notice something its frenzy had kept me distracted from- dripping blood, spotting the ground where he laid. Injured, then- and badly, as it seemed.  
I watched the man: little could I see, in the darkness, but that he was young or, at least, in his thirties; perhaps, he had joined the bandits to fight starvation, afflicting peasants even in such fertile lands. Maybe, he had been harassed by Arling's guardsmen, as they did not forbear themselves from oppressing those same they were called to protect- stealing from farms, killing cattle, or, worse, plundering and raping whenever they had chance. For such wrongs, a man might well choose to side against laws, when it was so plain how much they had failed in providing the weak any shelter.  
As long as I could fathom, I had much to fear from these bandits, but they certainly had not abandoned me when they could. Whatever they had in store for me, still I was alive, thanks to the skills of one of them. I could have barely named myself a decent being, if I had not helped this one, when there was little else I could attempt in order to escape. Facing them looked far from avertible: only a fool would have traded a life with vain hopes.  
I reached for the man and brushed his shoulder as gently as I could, careful not to startle him- a consideration he seemed more than ready to disregard, for, as soon as the contact broke, a grip of iron triggered onto my arm and I squeaked in terror, trying to back away. He did not let go of my hand, but dragged me closer, pulling so rudely he almost scratched the skin, tenderer on the wrist bones.

\- Not a single word. Shut up and do as I say; do you understand me, girl?

I flinched as his nails dag into my flesh and, muffling a whimper, nodded a strangled “yes”.

\- Very well. Now get up, go to that table and fetch me those herbs you see, and a bottle, the one with the green liquid in it.

Seeing he was not releasing my arm, I whispered:

\- You should let me go

The man did not answer, but retrieved his hand and returned it to the floor, where he leant, steadying himself, forehead to the bare ground, as he snuggled in prayer. His thick, black hair fell like a cascade from his shoulder to the nape; his face was dripping with sweat.  
I hurried to the table and collected what he had asked for, then displayed it at his feet, waiting for more of similar dispositions.

\- Good girl. Now, chew the herb and spit it into the bottle.

I had done it before; I knew that, in case of emergency, some poultice could be prepared without distilling raw materials, accurately mincing roots and leaves and diluting the mixture with a vehicle of sort. The resulting preparation would not retain all the potential a decoction might grant; still, the healing potential would be untouched, though at a quite rough degree. All that mattered was reducing the medicine into a thick paste, which meant keeping it into your mouth as long as saliva started dissolving the curative principles, yet not that you might accidentally ingest them. The entire operation needed a certain practice but, fortunately, I had helped Fernil enough times to know how to manage it properly.

I made my work quick, and I made it well. Then, I gave the bottle a vigorous shake to amalgamate the components: the mush of chopped herbs and saliva I had spitted into the green fluid melted perfectly, and I handled it to the man, watching him gulp avidly the most part of it and plaster the remnants on his neck. His hands trembled, greedy for relief, as a wander would throw himself into fresh waters after endless days in the desert, under the burning eye of the sun.  
The emptied vial thudded on the ground and rolled away with a feeble cling. We spent a long, dull while simply studying each other- or, better, I studied the dark oval of his face and felt observed in return, until his head raised to dim light and I could guess his lips had disclosed. Squinting in the dark, I could see how sharp their line was; it reminded me a wound, and I shivered - a response he seemed used to, for whatever he was going to say died on his mouth: he had recognized the mark of repulsion.  
In a feral silence, his shaky hands grasped my shoulders and he squeezed them clumsily- whether to prop himself to balance or thank me, it lasted too little that I could say. For a while, he looked incredibly old. Consumed, even. His elegant limbs wore but a memory of grace, still lingering above a bunch of exhausted bones that naught but the exertion of a tempestuous will could still keep gathered. So this was what he was: how could I have missed the resemblance, so evident now that I recollected his effigy, burning in the brightness of the morning sun? He was the man on the riverbank, the man at my bedside, threatening to murder me, spitting poison on Fernil, wishing him dead- he had always been. When he straightened his spine and turned to leave, all his frailty had vanished, replaced by the used insolence I had been a fool not to guess.  
His mouth opened again and my blood stilled, anticipating  _that_  voice.

\- Make yourself presentable and join me at my tent. There is much you’ll have to explain. Do not keep me waiting. Do not try to escape. You have gained one chance, today: I suggest you don't waste it.

 


	14. Maggots

When I left the tent, the camp resounded with voices, crowded as it was with smugglers hasting through opposite corners in apparently tireless industry. Many of them had gathered around the fire and busied themselves to mount a skewer above a chugging cauldron, whose steam carried a strong, chalybeate smell. They were preparing black cream, a common dish in Ferelden, obtained by boiling either pig or wild boar blood with spiced herbs and roasted game juices. One of the bandits was plucking turkeys: his fingers were sticky with the sickly sweet blood of the beasts, and flocks of feathers glued to his fingers, making his hands look like fantastic birds. Beside him, flies buzzed frantically over a huge bowl, where cuts of chicken and other bleeding meat had been piled to roast. A blond haired boy thrummed on some sort of lute, strumming nonsensical tunes about a dozen of capons and the innkeeper’ s wife . Other men sat around him, making unflattering remarks on the quality of his verse while polishing their blades with a moisture of carnation oil, whose intoxicating scent mingled with burnt feathers and boiled blood in a pungent smell that fluttered all over the camp. I had expected them to stop and watch at me, following my walkthrough with menacing eyes. I felt nude without my bow, frightened as I was they could try to slain me after what I had apparently done to them, and terrorized by the memory of all those tales I had heard about shemlen and their ferocity towards my kin. Yet, when I moved my first, tentative steps towards what was seemingly the centre of the camp, only a pair of them turned to observe me, averting their eyes as soon as our stares met each other's. I proceeded, steeling myself to ignore the thrill of apprehension snaking through my spine at each step I moved: would they spring on their feet and hit me on the spot with those sharpened swords of theirs, so lucid that they mirrored the first torches lit in the sunset?...Or, maybe, they could grasp one of them and set me on fire. Interruzione pagina And yet, half of the way was done, and they had not stirred one single muscle in my direction. They simply minded their business, attending to what they were into before I showed up, as I did not exist. Only the bard, if the blonde boy could be called such, turned down his high-pitched voice, breaking his dull worded song and missing the beat in a laughable way. The stranded strings gave an out-tuned sound that attracted venomous peeks from some of the elders. A comical dismay spread over his childish features and he stooped on his instrument, pretending to be completely absorbed by the task of readjusting it. I had few doubts his fellows would not spare him an unpleasant quarter of hour, once I had disappeared from their view. It was like walking into a bubble of mist and yet, for reassuring it was, I owed the awkward boy some gratitude; as if nothing, he had noted my presence.

 As many others of its kind, this camp differed from those I was accustomed to; its two axes designed likewise straight paths, crossing where the men had  set the  campfire .    
The tent I left  occupied one of four corners: right in front of it, a nother and much bigger tent of d ifferent shape w as guarded by two men. The gravity of their stance and  the presence of burning braziers lighting the wide sw e ep  before the  entrance suggested tha t whoever quartered  there was worth a certain regard : those men were likely  a ttendants.    
O ne of them \-  a dark ,  bull- necked man,  wit h sturdy limbs  and a  coarse might in its rather short figure - looked  somewhat  familiar: a flash of  recollection , and there I saw him, sitting amidst the swaying shrubs at the edge of the stream. There should have been someone else, near him, someone wearing a red ascot, but his face was lost to m emory , as if time had erased features once carved in stone.   
The short man looked at  me and  his moustached face clouded as he recognized me.  I was expected. As I approached, he nodded to me and pointed to the tent with a groan of command.  Composing myself , I  stooped  through the half-closed folds.

The room that disclosed to my eyes, at the inside, looked vast even in comparison with the mage tent, and thoroughly lit by rows of lamps  swinging from the top,  to whom strong  ropes secured t hem , accordingly to what seemed custom of these people. Unlike the tent I had woke up into, the pole of this one were disposed in a circle, on one side of which I spotted a bunch of sacks heavily leaning the one against the other, as if bent by their one weight.    
_ More of that greasy, blue powder, or the gold they have gouged from harmless waders _ .    
A massive cage occupied the centre of the room: dispatches, maps and other sparse papers, most of which covered in dense writing, or roughly sketched with glyphs and other unintelligible figures, piled on it. Some of them even dr oppe d on the thick, dark carpet that stretched on the bare dirt floor. More carpets and cloths hung draped all over likewise, hiding what I assumed to be wooden boxes, placed along the edges of the tent as cupboards and towering like sentinels in the dim light that lingered in the corners. A large pallet laid unrolled few steps from the  improvised desk : as the rest of the yet arranged furniture, it suggested a strong predilection of its owner for the darkest tonalities of red.    
The man who had made of this tent his not so temporary accommodation also liked his quarters stiflingly screened from any light or breeze that could still penetrate the thick layers of its covering. Where folders met,  oddly- historiated  fabrics drooped from  both  ceiling and poles, and one massive robe of dark blue velvet lumbered the passage at the very entrance. 

 Almost blinded by lamplight, I sensed three figures standing beside the table: the shorter one left at once, leaving me alone with two tall men, one of which sitting on an imposing seat that  made him look almost enthroned.   
 My heart sank: it was the first time I had to face more than one  shemlen , for good, and not only on combat ground, for that I could have borne. Normally,  they would not have scared me ,  but here,  in a disadvantaged position, bereft of the guard my weapon could offer, and forced to stand their trial, I felt a different kind of feeling- unexperienced before, but familiar, nonetheless.    
It was the centuries aged fear the persecuted nurses towards his oppressor , and it was the rage of the rebellious, and the desperate hunger for enemy’s cries of pain - the same one that makes, of each tranquil man, a cold blooded torturer of fallen tyrants, estranged from mercy, oblivious of justice , ready to slay innocents on the way of the oh so long awaited rev enge .    
For a while, it tainted my soul, and made me desire to strike as the viper, tricking them into trust, and then blowing, when it was too late for them to seek shelter. Blood thundered a seductive rhythm of rage into my ears: their shapes shone as ambers in my sight shadowed by fury.    
And then, I saw him- the memory that had tormented so many of my nights:  Alim . In my dreams, I had never had a clear vision of his face- it appeared  blurred , as looking at the horizon through a curtain of heat. Now, I could see it - I could see his Fade-green eyes, and the expression in them, so deadly  that  my rage stirred in response, like birds taking flight to  join  flock of their kin.   
I knew what laid at the end of that path: fire, death and devastation. I shook my head, pulling away  the thought. The thunder decreased to a murmur, and my heart dropped to a milder beat. It was not the time for hatred- not yet; perhaps, that time would never come. 

I peeked over my hosts and rec ognized the mage who had assisted me; he w ore a light armour repairing  both elbows and  chest;  a long, black staff rest  leaned  against a cage behind him.   
He must have been back from an errand, for some droplets of blood mixed with blue spot soaked his green robes. The man beside him was, with no doubt, the same I had aided no more than a quarter of hour before. Black clothes wrapped his frame; he wore a tight piece of breastplate and a red ascot, scarfed around his neck and still draggled with the liquid I had given him: I could see scraps of mucilage plastered between fabric and skin, where he had frenziedly plugged it in.   
Eventually, I dared to shift my stare from his throat up to the face. The missing pieces of the puzzle stroke me with violence: I remembered him standing on the riverbank, shouting stormy words at his men while a raw hum raised from earth.    
Long, sharp chin; a triangular jawbone; hawk-like nose and two exceedingly deep eye pits, from where two impossibly bright black eyes scrutinized me with unreadable thoughts . As I looked into them, I was stricken by the image of  flowing waters, ready to swallow me into deadly ripples.    
Thin lips, somehow unnaturally red for his pale complexion; black hair, so lucid they reflected some of the lamplight, casting faint leaden reflections at each breath he took. The man had the magnetism of a scorpion: I would  have  sworn  a  venomous  sting hid  under his robes.    
_ He is nothing but a man, after all: and all man can di e _ , I repeated to myself.    
Odd, how it used to be one of  Fernil’s favourite bywords, one of the few he did not tire himself of, not even in the days after  Alim had passed, when his voice was seldom to be heard and he seemed inclined to all but old proverbs. I had often found it so unnerving, and yet there I was, clinging to it as to an anchor.   
The mage assisted our meeting, which might  be regarded as unpredicted advantage: not that I could trust anyone of them, yet, but, at least, he had cured me, and proved somewhat sensible to my cause. Perchance he knew how to sooth the harshness his master seemed to value as the only acceptable way to address those unfortunates who ran into him.  He might be willing to use his knowledge in my favour, though under conditions- and of a profitable sort, which made his intervention unlikely, since I had nothing to offer.  _ And yet _ … 

 -Come in- the scorpion-men croaked.

 I complied, hands well on sight. The hands of a mage are notoriously a dangerous tool: showing I had no wish to rise them against my hosts would seemingly reassure them on my account.  

\- Your name- the man commanded.

The question was not unexpected, and my answer prompt:

\-  Telana -

As if reading into my mind, he considered me for a while, blinking like a malevolent owl.

\- Very well,  _ Telana _ \- supposed that this be your true name…

\- Would it be of use, if I lied?

He burst in an unamicable rasp of mockery- his peculiar way of laughing, as I was to apprehend.    
Given his recent wounds, it was an incautious gesture: all of a sudden, his hand ran to the throat, but he quickly regained control over himself and rest it on his chest. After which, he shifted on the improvised throne, stiffening against its back to disguise his pain, and kicked the desk to cross his legs behind it, flashing a keen glance to me. We both knew, yet neither of us could drop the mask. 

\-  You are the spirited kind, aren't you? Yet, as it appears, not as smart as your friend, provided of course that you held him as friend. Do you even know his name,  Telana ?

I would have never given them his true  name, of this I had few doubts but to let them see I was too quick in answering their prompts, that would be unwise, to say the least.    
Instead,  showing a moderate reticence about a man they had reason to suspect sounded only  natural of me.  I   had a part to play, no  matter where it would bring me.   
I faltered and disclosed my lips, pretending to restrain myself.

\- The name, girl- the scorpion man hissed. 

At this point, the mage stepped in , addressing me with  even tone, a kind smile of condescendence painted on his face.

\- Come on,  Telana , we won't harm you; you have just to tell us his name. 

\-  Alim ; his name is  Alim \- I blurted out.

They exchanged satisfied looks.   
_ So this is how it works: they think they have scared my guts out of me . _  
There was a certain, devious pleasure in watching them believe they had overpowered me, a defenceless, silly little elf: from some depth of my heart, an obduracy aroused, the like I had never experienced in any previous moment of my life.    
In a flash, I recalled all that countless times I had exposed my life to dangers willingly or driven by circumstances. The solitary chase of a deer; the pursuit of mares, down through the musk of the underbrush; the inextinguishable thirst to step further from where I felt safe, over the line of the camp, through the woods, where a wrong move is enough to be lost.   
And yet, when I hunted alone, back in those days, I never thought the threaten was real: I knew the only purpose of beasts was either to kill or escape, and both of us had similar chances to fail, depending on our abilities as much on the odds. It was all about tricking the wolf, my people would say. However, after undertaking that desperate ride to the North, I had experienced a new and particular kind of terror, the like only human beings inspire; suddenly, death had become a simple game: cruelty and subjection were now the monsters that haunted our sleeps.   
Still, even then, while we sneaked past Templars’ scouts and hijackers’ gangs, I could count on the fact that  Fernil would have guarded my back- a n assurance that only once lost gained the  credit it had deserved long before I realized it .   
The contingence at hand was , however,  completely different from anything I was familiar with: I was alone, facing a poorly known enemy, with no dependable ally at my side, yet in need of gaining the trust of at least one among my captors. A thrill of excitement ran through my spine.  _ Let’s play, then, if this is what you want. _

\- Good girl! – 

The mage was clearly pleased with his accomplishment. The scorpion man averted his eyes from his sidekick and turned to me:  from  the annoyance I read in his eyes, such patronizing displays  did not match his favour.

 \- Do you know why we kept you here? – he resumed. 

\- I don’t-

\- I suppose you consider yourself innocent, then; 

\- I was unconscious for days, or so I have been told; I have few memories of what happened.

\- Really?

The mage intervened again, this time to argue:

\- Mag, I am quote certain she is not lying; as I told you before, she has been through serious distress; it is only logical that she…

“Mag” turned to him, flashing a poisonous look in his direction.

\- I did not recall I required your expertise ,  of late . 

Then, he was on me again, a hawk stooping on his prey from precipitous heights.

\- You have slept enough to recover, I made sure you did; now, if you please, the time has come to speak plainly, clearly and once for all. I do not care whether you remember or not; you were posting at the ford with a friend of yours, an elf, just as you are, and both of you were spying on me while I was concluding my business. The deal is screwed, my clients took to the woods, and guess what? The fault is all and solely yours. Now, tell me: who are you, what were the darn two of you doing in my territory, and how do you intend to repay me for the damage you caused?

\- I was...we were…

\- Or should I rather think you are one of them? Who sent you here? What were you searching for? Has he reached your fucking fellows to spill the beans about my business at the Reach? What am I supposed to do with you, now? Are you really so n ut that you expect them to  run at your rescue from the big bad  shems ?

He leaped out of his chair and fisted the table with such violence his pale knuckles turned red.    
I stumbled backward, startled by his fury.

\- Maggots,  for  Maker's mercy! - said the mage, grasping his companion by the elbow.

His react ion had alarmed me, but I  promptly regained my temper.    
_ Show them you can stand their intimidations.   
  
_ \- You are insane! I do not know you, and I do not know what you are talking about ! 

 - Is this what they told you to say? They are not as clever as I remember them, then-

\- Mag, that's too much; you won’t get anywhere by this. Let me spe ak with her: the girl cannot be so unreasonable . Please.

Maggots stiffened without even looking at his companion; then, he seated,  slowly, and gestured to him as remitting  the whole matter,  a sarcastic grin over his square features.

The mage thanked him with a nod and turned to me.

\- Why,  Telana , despite we had rather tense intercourses, thus far, at the present time it seems we share an interest. I understand you probably don't see it: I shall make it clear for you. You are a prisoner, as you probably figured out yourself. That does not mean we intend to kill you, or that we will harm you in any way- as long as you cooperate, of course. The business at hand is pretty serious, as you will imagine: when you and your friend reached the ford, my fellow was trying to accomplish a transaction of great valour to us. Unfortunately, as things were turning quite messy,  and the whole matter was  too  important not to take precautions,  we expected we would not have been alone. In fact, we were almost certain some old acquaintance would show up; and, when I spotted you and your friend watching from your hide, I jumped to conclusions and reckoned wise to alert our men. It appears I have been misled, or maybe not, I still do not know; I hope you can be of any help. We really thought you were enemies: I apologize for the rudeness we used to you, which must have caused what followed.  ‘Twas completely my fault, I repeat you. It seems you were not fully aware of your potential: I suppose you knew there is magic inside you, but not how much, probably. You were startled and, as expectable, you used your power as a response to a sudden input.    
The point is you have stirred up something like an earthquake. Part of the riverbed where you stood has ruined, compromising the ford: while we speak, it no longer exists. The tremors uprooted some  tree , which consequently crashed on  our charge; you had even indirectly hurt some of our companions. Those we were negotiating with were all too glad to have a chance to fly; they didn’t even bother to intervene while an elven apostate was wrecking half of the riverbank. After which, you ran out of mana and thus collapsed. Your friend is still missing: he has abandoned you. We had no mean to determine whether you were simple waders, like many others, or, as it seemed the case, someone sent you to report on our activities. Be as it is, you are alone, now: you have dealt us serious losses, injured some of our men and gave us more than one reason to suspect you. Were you willing to cooperate, it is my duty to inform you that we have a mutual interest in your well-being; if you tell us why you were there, you will stay with us and help us fix the damage procured. Know this, though: should any of your friends be back, we will know you were not telling the truth; and I don’t think I need to explain what this would mean for you. Now, I hope all is clear.

\- Crystal clear-

\- Clever girl. Then, what do you have to say?

_ Now,  Telana . Be brave _ .

\- I have not been completely honest to you, that is true : I knew something about my...powers. B ut there was no lie in my words when I said I do not know you. My Keeper, he sent me away; my...gift was dangerous, he said. He was right, as it seems. I am sorry about your fellows . I met that man ,  Alim , while wandering through the Southern lands, quite far from here. He said that elves like me are not welcome in the South, and that he aimed to the North, to the Free Marches. I had not many alternatives: I can hunt, you see, but alone, I knew I could not last  too long. When we arrived at the ford, we hoped we weren't to run into either Templars or bandits, but then…

The discomfort in my words was too heartfelt to be counterfeit: they could hardly doubt I was telling the truth. And somehow, I was: I still could not make up my mind to what they told  I had done. As it was not enough, and however pretending he had no reason to come back was all I could do to protect him, I w as  w orried  about  Fernil 's fate.   
  
\- A  Dalish , then- Maggots  said. A sinister glimpse ran through the depths of  those dark eyes.   
I shivered.

\- We call ourselves such -

\- And where is your vela… velli …

The mage cut short:

\-  _ Vallaslin_ . They do not get it until puberty. The girl is too young to bear it.

\- I should assume you are still a maiden, then?

My throat went dry .

\- Mag, I see no need for this; the girl knows how to hunt, as she admitted herself;  Dalish hunters are the most skilled I have ever known, and she is old enough to have learnt a lot. She could prove useful; I could teach her how to master her powers, and she would serve a wonderful archer and a fine mage. Leave her to my care, and she will repay you twice of what she has wasted to us; I am willing to grant for her.

\-  Ruthilian , on wh ose side are you, precisely? I had sent you myself. You were among those who escorted that damned  l yrium cargo from  Orzammar ; if I did not kno w you, I’d say you don’t care for money, that you don’ t give a fuck  about  all our effor ts, all what we put into this. And if you don’t, neither do I, for  I really  don't give a fuck myself  for another archer, or mage, or both ,  whatever. To be of any use, she will need a lot of training, and we have no time f or this shit. Just think of it: a nice  Dalish girl, without even a mark on her prett y s kin, all freckles and innocence; a maiden without a drop of blood shed from her cunt, and a mage, too: she would gain us a fortune at  Minrathous !

Ruthilian would not insist further, I knew it. However little, the part I had played in my clan taught me that  the  rules small communities force upon themselves to grant their sub sistence are few, plain and  merciless. The licence of  questioning a lead er lasts to the point it beget s  actual questions:  from then on, the only thing left is to  comply .   
Although it was evident that “Mag” trusted his mage  with  enough confidence to  let him contradict his arguments  in front of a prisoner- who, at any rate, they were treating as harmless, despite all the fus s about my “skills”-  try ing the limits of such  condescendence would not prove a wise move . Which  Ruthilian showed to be aware of, dropping the debate with sudden remission:

\- Very well, since it appears there is no way to persuade you otherwise…

\- I am glad to find there is still some good sense in that red head of yours. And to prove you that I welcome you to recovered reason, I suppose you will not be displeased if I charge you with a great responsibility. From now on,  Telana \- “Mag” turned to me, flashing another of his ghastly smiles- you will be completely committed to your major supporter here, which means he will be held responsible for everything you do. I am sure you will be glad to share so many things, as good fellow mages do, isn’t it? –

Then, he addressed  Ruthilian , his mellifluous  tone concealing much less amicable implications.

\- See that she does not get us into troubles. Give her no chance of flight: she is clever, the little stoat, like all of her kind... and, should that pretty little face of hers get scorched, well, you know, there will be someone to blame for damaging my brand new investment. Now, get out of here, the two of you: we have had enough of business, for tonight- and he wavered a hand to dismiss us.

Ruthilian tilted his head in a  half- bow: then, he grasped my shoulders and turned me to the entrance, dragging me  away  from  “Mag” ’s  sight.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Few: She means the Dalish.  
> I must thank my boyfriend Alberto. He helped me a lot, checking my mistakes and supporting me for this and for countless other things. Without him I wouldn't even have started playing my first videogame, Dragon age Origins. I owe him a wonderful lot of stuff.


End file.
